














► ✓ ® A 

cX y ft 0 

Ik « /'S <V. .A' 




,.0‘ ^ 
L» <^ 


' '•- ■% / .-iSv-. ■>*'' * 

b V> - t<^’' 




«!• 

® * <'>iy 


'' ^'’ .V'*. 

V -i yfj 



^ 0 ft 




'* ^ 'O ^ 0 O X ^ \ ' 0 N C * 

0 -’'11,% «■*' 

<l k . I <■—■■.» 


Ar 'O, >! 

\V S' ^ ^ . 


'a '0^1 s''^ 

Ac»“‘« -^h‘°‘ ,<y 

> * f'S'^Nv <^0 ^ J' a^yjV'P^ 

.— V^. ' \ >v —W .A' ^ j^g/l / / / ,' A 




vl^ * , 

-#> '^-V a\ ^ 

P® ; A V j ff;, 

^ = \0 °<. ' 


O 0 * >^u= 


s * 0 ^ 


-v ^ 




■ c« ^ 

.W ‘s'' ' 


^ o 

."tv 


•A . 

« ‘S 





■JH 


» 




p 

» 

i 




1 


I 



li 







V 






‘.n 


IT 


'1 


• - 


1 








• *'.• i ‘*- ^:JSS ‘. V‘ ' IS 



- • hr' ' • / “^ 1 

-■■ Si * Tt‘ ■'•^- 


k'^'x 


f * 




*..tr s« 




!\‘'4 


' "'^’'V-.^V' .-.v. 



J - 


ir 




I » 




■ v*:' 








ON I WENT THROUGH MIST OR DARKNESS 





M 


A MESSAGE 

FROM A LOST SOUL 

OR 

LETTERS FROM HELL 


WITH AN INTRODUCTORY CHAPTER ON 

HELL 

AS GOD HAS REVEALED IT IN HIS WORD 

By rev. R. a. TORREY 

I 


AND A CONCLUDING CHAPTER ON 

HEAVEN 

THE HOME OF THE REDEEMED 
By rev. WM. H. LINDEMUTH 


P. W. ZIEGLER CO. 

PHILADELPHIA 



LIBRARY of CONGRESS 
Two Copies Received 

OC7 23 1906 



COPY B. 


Copyright 1906 
By C. E. Miller 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

“ On I Went Through Mist or Darkness ”... Frontispiece 

“ There is a Great Gulf, a Fathomless Abyss ” 55 v' 

“Having Nothing to Do” 75 

“ I Saw No Particular Harm in What I Had Done ”... 125 ^ 

“ Sad Pretence of Former Grandeur ” 152 / 

“ And Then She Told Me Another Story ” 186 

“ A Remarkable Personage ” 199 

“ Once So Lovely, Now So Degraded ” 215 

“ My Story Had Rocked Lily to Sleep ” 243 ' 

“ He Keeps Throwing It Away ” . 271 

“He Folds His Hands in Silent Prayer, and Heeds Me Not” 297 
“What Are You Thinking Of” 322 


tA 


'' ' ' 



J'*' "if v'-r" ■ ' 

. V^ - ., . 

.'.♦ •• • • 



V v“ 




, ^ 


'.1 “■• 


4 

♦ 






v.:‘ 


.f 


.# •• 
>• 


-.,4" ■‘'7- 


: 

•Jt»> ' 'vf 

:.:..j: - ■ ■ ■■ 

A A*, a 


■« 


■ ‘J- . ■ 

■ . ‘•"• X 


>1? 


'•':--v 



^f ':-y ;j-'V '-1, 4', •;'. ^ 

X I-*.*.' '• • . 1 - 


/ 



i* ♦ • 





• . 




4%. 


< 




^ A 




. • f »- - 


'• * «• 


A » 


a > 

• '^<i .: v**/t 




>•" ■. ‘ • 


7 t 


r. X 


’J*, 





HELL 

AS GOD HAS REVEALED IT 
IN HIS WORD 


By rev. R. a. TORREY 


The Bible doctrine of hell appalling but true. 

No one need go, who does not choose to. 
Unpleasant truth better than pleasant error. 

Hell is certain. Why it is certain. 

Hell a place of extreme bodily suffering. 

Hell a place of memory and remorse. 

Hell a place of insatiable and tormenting desire. 
Hell a 'place of shame. 

Hell a place of vile companionships. 

Hell a world without hope. 


HELL. 


All we know about the future destiny of the wicked 
is what God has been pleased to reveal to us in His 
Word. Human speculations upon the subject are ab- 
solutely worthless. God knows, we don’t. But God 
has been pleased to tell us much of what He does know 
on this subject. It is the part of wisdom for us to 
listen to Him. One ounce of God’s revelation about 
the future is worth one hundred tons of man’s specula- 
tion. Yet on every side we hear men giving us their 
speculations about the future life. Men will tell you: 
“ I think so and so about the future life.” What differ- 
ence does it make what you think, the question is, what 
does God say? Most men in their speculations about 
the future life consult their wishes rather than, their 
judgment. They do not desire to believe the Bible doc- 
trine; they go to work to fix the future up in the way 
they would like to have it, but God is not consulting us 
in the matter. The wise man never asks what he would 
like to think, he asks what are the facts in the case. 

Undoubtedly the Bible doctrine about the future des- 
tiny of the wicked is appalling, but the fact that it is 
appalling does not prove that it is not true. The San 
Francisco disaster was appalling nevertheless it is a 
fact. The facts about human sin and human suffering 
— as any man can see for himself in any great city, if 
he will only open his eyes — are appalling, neverthe- 
less they are facts. What God has revealed about the 
future destiny of those who reject Christ in the life that 
now is is appalling, but none the less it is a fact. The 
9 


lO 


HELL 

wise man will not shut his eyes to these facts because 
they are so appalling, but will open his eyes wide to 
the facts and act accordingly. But there is one fact 
that greatly relieves the appalling nature of the Bible 
revelations about the eternal agony and despair that 
await those who continue in sin; that fact is that it is 
possible for any one who will to repent and accept 
Christ; and, therefore, no one needs to go to hell unless 
he chooses to. The man who shuts his eyes to the fact 
of hell because it is so appalling and plunges headlong 
thither, when he might open his eyes to the fact and 
turn out of the path that leads to that fearful place, is 
a consummate fool. 

I wish that I could believe that there is no hell; that 
is, I wish that I could believe that all men would come 
to repentance and accept Christ and that therefore hell 
would be unnecessary. Of course, if men will persist 
in sin and persist in the rejection of Jesus Christ, God’s 
glorious Son, I cannot but recognize that it is right that 
there should be a hell and that hell should continue as 
long as men persist in their sin and rejection of Christ. 
If men will choose sin, and if men will trample under 
foot the glorious Son of God, it is for the good of the 
universe and the glory of God that there should be a 
hell to confine them in. But I wish with all my heart 
that all men would repent, and thus render hell un- 
necessary, so far as the human race is concerned. But 
I do not wish to believe it If It is not true. I would 
rather believe and proclaim unpleasant truth than to 
believe and proclaim pleasant error, and as awful as 
the thought is I have been driven to the conclusion that 
there Is a hell. No man ever tried harder than I to 
believe that hell was of limited duration. I came again 
and again to the tnith as revealed In the Bible and 


HELL 1 1 

backed away from it. I once brought myself to the 
place where I honestly believed and taught that all men, 
and even the devil, would ultimately come to repentance, 
and thus hell would cease to be. But upon more ma- 
ture thought I came to the place where I could not 
honestly reconcile this position with the teaching of 
Christ and the apostles. I was driven to this alter- 
native — that I must either give up my Bible, or give 
up my “ eternal hope.” I could not give up the Bible. 
I had found overwhelming proof that the Bible was the 
very Word of God, and I could make the Bible agree 
with my theory of “ eternal hope ” only by twisting and 
distorting the Scriptures to force them to teach what 
they did not really teach. As an honest man I could 
not twist and distort the Scriptures in order to make 
them agree with what I wanted to believe. So as an 
honest man there was only one thing left for me to do, 
that was to give up my opinion that all men would ul- 
timately come to repentance and be saved. 

I know perfectly well that if a man stands squarely 
upon the position of Christ and the apostles and stands 
upon it without fear, he will be called narrow, harsh 
and cruel. But he is a coward who withholds truth to 
avoid being called hard names. As to being narrow, 
I have no desire to be any more broad than Jesus Christ 
was ; as to being cruel, is it cruel to tell men the truth ? 
Is it not the kindest thing that any man can do, to 
declare the whole counsel of God and point out to men 
the full measure of their danger. Suppose that I were 
walking down a railway track, knowing that far back 
of me there was a train coming on loaded with happy 
excursionists, men, women and children full of joy and 
glee. I come to a place where I had supposed there 
was a bridge across the chasm, but to my horror I find 


12 


HELL 


the bridge is down. I say to myself, “ I must go back 
at once as far as possible up the track and stop that on- 
coming train.” I hurry back and put forth my utmost 
effort to stop the train. I break in upon these merry 
people with the awful announcement that the bridge is 
down and that they are in peril of frightful disaster. I 
spoil the merriment of the evening, and I banish bright 
thoughts from their mind, and bring in their place hor- 
rid thoughts if imminent danger. Possibly some one 
goes crazy over the declaration of the fact. Would 
that be cruel? Would it not be the kindest thing that 
I could do? Suppose on the other hand when I had 
found the bridge down, I should say, “ These people are 
so happy, I cannot bear to disturb their night’s light- 
heartedness and gaiety. That would be too cruel. I 
will sit down here and wait till the train comes. I 
cannot bear to spoil their merriment, and perhaps if I 
should tell the facts some one might go crazy,” so I sit 
down while the train comes rushing on and leaps un- 
warned into that awful abyss and soon there are rising 
the despairing shrieks and groans of the wounded and 
mangled as they crawl out from among the corpses of 
the dead. Would that be kind? Would it not be the 
cruelest thing that I could do? Well, I have been down 
the track. I had supposed that there was a bridge 
across the chasm but I have found that the bridge is 
down. I have discovered that many of you who are 
now full of gaiety and joy are rushing on unwarned 
toward the awful fate that awaits you. I have come 
back up the track to warn you. I may banish for the 
time being your joyfulness and merriment, possibly 
some one may become crazy through brooding over the 
awful facts, but by God’s grace, I will save you from 
the awful impending doom. Is that cruel? It is not 


HELL 


13 

the kindest thing that I can do ? I would much rather 
be called cruel for being kind, than be called kind for 
being cruel. The cruelest man on earth is the man who 
believes the stern things we are told in the Word of 
God about the future penalties of sin, but keeps back 
from declaring them because they are unpopular. The 
kindest Man that ever walked this earth, the Man who 
showed His kindness by dying for the most worthless 
of men and dying for His bitterest enemies was Jesus 
Christ, and yet no one ever uttered stronger or sterner 
words about the future destiny of those who continue 
in sin and reject Him than Jesus Himself uttered. I 
would rather be like Him than like these men to-day 
who make a great boast of their being too kind-hearted 
to believe in hell but who only show their kind-hearted- 
ness by smooth words through which they gain the ap- 
plause and money of their fellow men while they rock 
them to sleep unwarned of their awful peril. 

I. THE CERTAINTY OF HELL. 

It is an absolute certainty that there is a hell. 

There are many that tell us that all the scholarly min- 
isters have given up belief in an orthodox hell. This 
statement is a lie. That kind of argument is a favorite 
argument with men who know they have a weak case 
and try to bolster up a weak case by strong assertion. 
In a similar way many of the destructive critics of the 
Bible are asserting that all scholars now hold their 
view. If they are at all posted regarding what they 
are talking about they know they lie when they say it, 
but it is the kind of argument that has great weight 
with people who not having much scholarship them- 
selves, long to be in the same class with those who they 


HELL 


14 

suppose are the great scholars of the day. It is true 
beyond a doubt that some scholarly ministers have given 
up belief in the orthodox hell, but they never gave it 
up for reasons of Greek scholarship, or New Testa- 
ment scholarship. They gave it up for purely senti- 
mental and speculative reasons, and then attempted to 
make their Greek Testament conform to their specu- 
lative theories. No man can go to the New Testament 
to find out what it really teaches, and not to see how 
he can twist it into conformity with the speculations 
which he wishes to believe, and not find hell in the New 
Testament. 

But suppose it were true, that all the scholarly min- 
isters had given up belief in the orthodox hell, it would 
not prove anything; for everybody that is familiar with 
the history of the world and the history of the church 
knows that time and time again the scholars have all 
given up belief in doctrines that after all in the final 
outcome proved to be true. There were no scholars in 
Noah’s day, except Noah himself, that believed there 
would be a flood, but the flood came just the same. 
There were no scholars in Lot’s day except Lot that be- 
lieved that God would destroy Sodom and Gomorrah, 
but He did. Jeremiah and one friepd were the only 
leading men in Jerusalem that believed what Jeremiah 
taught about the coming destruction of Jerusalem under 
Nebuchadnezzar, but history outside the Bible as well 
as history inside the Bible, tell us that it came true to 
the very letter, though there was not a scholar who be- 
lieved it. Every leading school of theological thought 
in the days of Jesus Christ, the Pharisees, the Sad- 
ducees, the Herodians, and the Essenes, every one of 
the four, scoffed at Jesus Christ’s prediction about the 
coming judgment of God upon Jerusalem, but secular 


HELL 


15 

history tells us that in spite of the dissent of all the 
scholars it came true just as Jesus Christ predicted. 
There was not a university In the world, there was 
scarcely a leading scholar, In the days of Huss and Mar- 
tin Luther that had not given up faith in the doctrine 
of justification by faith, till Huss and Luther and their 
colleagues came. It was necessary to establish a new 
university to stand for the truth of God. But to-day 
we know that Martin Luther was right, that every uni- 
versity of Germany, France, England, and Scotland 
was wrong. Just so to-day, if It were true that every 
scholarly preacher on earth and every university on 
earth had given up belief In the orthodox hell. It would 
not prove anything whatever. 

Hell Is certain. Why Is It certain? First of all, 
because Jesus Christ says so, the apostles say so, God 
says so. You can find the words, of Jesus Christ In Matt. 
25 141, “ Then shall He say also unto them on the left 
hand. Depart from Me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, 
prepared for the devil and his angels.” If you want 
the words of the Apostle Paul, you can find them In 
II Thess. 1 17-9, “ The Lord Jesus shall be revealed 
from heaven with His mighty angels. In flaming fire, 
taking vengeance on them that know not God, and that 
obey not the Gospel of our Lord Jesus Christ: who 
shall be punished with everlasting destruction from the 
presence of the Lord, and from the glory of His pow- 
er.” You can find the words of the Apostle John In 
Rev. 20:15, “And whoever was not found written In 
the book of life was cast Into the lake of fire.” You 
can find the words of Apostle Peter In II Pet. 2 :4, 9, 
“ For If God spared not the angels that sinned, but cast 
them down to hell, and delivered them Into chains of 
darkness, to be reserved unto judgment; ... the 


HELL 


i6 

Lord knoweth how to deliver the godly out of tempta- 
tions, and to reserve the unjust unto the day of judg- 
ment to be punished.” The words of the Apostle Jude 
may be found in Jude 14, 15, “ The Lord shall come 
with ten thousand of His holy ones, rendering ven- 
geance unto all, and convincing all the ungodly of all 
their ungodly deeds which they have ungodly done, and 
of all their hard sayings which ungodly sinners have 
spoken against Him.” You can find the words of 
Jesus Himself again, after He had died, after He had 
gone down into the abode of the dead, after He had 
come up again from the abode of the dead, after He 
had ascended to the right hand of the Father (He cer- 
tainly knows what He is talking about now — He has 
been there) in Revelation 21 :8, “ The fearful, and un- 
believing, and the abominable, and murderers, and sor- 
cerers, and whoremongers, and idolaters, and all liars, 
shall have their part in the lake which bumeth with 
fire and brimstone : which is the second death.” 

The fact that Jesus Christ and the apostles say that 
there is a hell, the fact that God says it through them, 
makes it absolutely certain that there is a hell. The 
only thing against it is the speculations of the theolog- 
ians and the dreams of the poets. The words of Jesus 
Christ have stood the test of eighteen centuries and 
have always proved true in the final outcome. No 
school of theological speculation has ever stood the test 
of eighteen years, and when I have Christ on one side 
and speculative theologians on the other, it don’t take 
me long to decide which to believe. 

But hell is certain for another reason, namely ex- 
perience, observation and common sense prove unmis- 
takably that there must be a hell. One of the most cer- 
tain facts of every man’s experience is this, that where- 


HELL 


17 

ever there is sin there must be suffering. Each one of 
us knows that. The second certain fact of observation 
is that the longer a man continues in sin the deeper 
he sinks down into sin and the ruin, shame, agony and 
despair which are the outcome of all sin. There are 
hundreds and thousands of men and women in every 
city tonight in a very practical hell, and that hell is get- 
ting worse every day. You may find it difficult to 
reconcile what these men and women suffer with the 
doctrine that “ God is love ” but you do not, if you are 
an intelligent man, give up the facts that you see be- 
cause you cannot reconcile them with your philosophy. 
An intelligent man accepts facts whether they fit into 
his philosophy or not, and it is a fact that thousands 
and tens of thousands of men and women are in a very 
practical hell to-day and that hell is becoming worse 
and worse every day. If this process keeps going on 
and they keep sinking deeper and deeper into ruin, 
shame and despair, when the time of possible repentance 
has passed, and it must be passed some time, what is 
left but an everlasting hell? Again I say, the only 
thing against it is the dream of poets and the specu- 
lations of would-be philosophers, but the speculations 
of philosophers have proved an ignis fatuus from the 
very dawn of history. When I have on the one hand 
the teaching of observation, experience and common 
sense and on the other hand only the speculations of 
philosophers and the dreams of poets, it does not take 
me very long to decide which to believe. But when 
in addition to the teachings of observation, experience 
and common sense in their conflict with the speculations 
of cloistered theologians, we have the sure teaching of 
the Word of God, the case is settled. There is a hell. 
One who shuts his eyes to the fact is playing the fool. 


i8 


HELL 


II. THE CHARACTER OF HELL. 

Hell is a place of extreme bodily suffering. 

That is plain from the teaching of the New Testa- 
ment. There are many proofs of it but the following 
will suffice. The commonest words to express the doom 
of the impenitent are “ death ” and “ destruction,” con- 
stantly recurring. What do death and destruction 
mean? God has not left us in doubt for He has taken 
pains to define His terms. You will find His definition 
of destruction in Rev. 17:8 compared with Rev. 19:20 
and Rev. 20:10. In Rev. 17:8 we are told that “ the 
beast goeth into perdition.” The word there translated 
“ perdition ” is the same word which is translated else- 
where “ destruction,” and ought to be so translated 
here, or else it ought to be translated differently in the 
other passages. Now, if you can find where the beast 
goes, you have God’s own definition of “ perdition,” or 
“destruction.” Rev. 19:20 tells us just where the 
beast goes. You will there read that the “beast and 
false prophet were cast into the lake that burneth with 
fire and brimstone.” Next turn to Rev. 20:10 and 
there you are told that a thousand years after the beast 
and false prophet have been cast in there, the devil also 
is cast into the place where the beast and false prophet 
still “ are ” at the end of the thousand years, and they 
shall be “ tormented day and night forever and ever.” 
By God’s own definition then “ perdition ” or “ destruc- 
tion ” is the condition of beings in a place of conscious 
and unending torment. Now let us look at God’s 
definition of “ death.” You will find it in Rev. 21 :8, 
“ The fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, 
and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and 
idolaters, and all liars shall have their part in the lake 


HELL 


19 

which burneth with fire and brimstone : which is the sec- 
ond deaths God’s definition of death is a portion in 
“ the lake which burneth with fire and brimstone,” just 
the same as His definition of “ perdition.” “ But,” 
some one will say, “ that is highly figurative.” Very 
well, take it as that if you like, but remember God’s fig- 
ures stand for facts. Some people when they come to 
something unwelcome in the Bible will say, “ It is fig- 
urative,” and fancy they have thus done away with it 
altogether. You have not done away with it at all by 
calling it figurative. You have simply laid upon your- 
self the obligation to explain the figure. What does the 
figure mean? God is no liar and God’s figures never 
overstate the facts, and it means at least this much, 
bodily suffering of the intensest kind. 

We must remember furthermore that in the next life 
we do not exist as disembodied spirits. The theory so 
prevalent in our day of the immortality of the soul in- 
dependent of the body, where we float around as dis- 
embodied spirits, is speculative philosophy and not New 
Testament teaching. According to the Bible, in the 
world to come, the redeemed spirit has a body, not 
this same body, but a body the perfect counterpart of 
the redeemed spirit that inhabits it, and partaker with 
it in all its blessedness. On the other hand the lost 
spirit has a body, not this same body, a radically differ- 
ent body, but a body the perfect counterpart of the lost 
spirit that inhabits it, and partaker with it in all its 
misery. Even in this present life, inward spiritual sin 
causes outward bodily pain. Millions of men to-night 
are suffering the most exquisite bodily suffering because 
of inward sin. It will be so in the world to come. 

2. But while bodily pain is one of the features of 
hell it is the least significant feature. Hell is a place 
2 


20 


HELL 


of memory and remorse. In the picture which Christ 
has given us of the rich man after death, i\braham said 
to the rich man “ Remember.” The rich man had not 
taken much with him that he had on earth into the 
future world, but he had taken one thing, he had taken 
his memory. Every one that reads these lines and 
continues in sin and therefore spends eternity in hell 
will not take much with him that he possesses to-day 
but he will take one thing, he will take his memory. 
Men will remember the women whose lives they have 
blasted and ruined. Women will remember the lives 
they have squandered in fashion and frivolity and fool- 
ishness when they might have been living for God and 
their fellow men. All will remember the Christ they 
have rejected and the opportunities for salvation that 
they have despised. There is no torment known to 
man like the torment of an accusing memory. I have 
seen strong men weep like children. What was the 
matter? Memory. I have seen one of the strong- 
est, brainiest men I ever knew throw himself on the 
floor of my office and roll and sob and groan and wail, 
what was the matter? Memory. I have had men and 
women hurry up to me at the close of a service with 
pale cheeks, with drawn lips, with haunted eyes, and 
beg a private interview. What was the matter? 
Memory. You will take your memory with you into 
the life beyond the grave and a memory and a con- 
science that are not set at peace in the life that now 
is by the atoning blood of Christ and the pardoning 
grace of God never will be. Hell is a place where 
men remember and suffer. 

3. Hell is a place of insatiable and tormenting de- 
sire, Jesus tells us that the rich man in hell said, “ Send 
Lazarus that he may dip the tip of his finger in water 


21 


HELL 

and cool my tongue for I am tormented (R. V. in 
anguish) in this flame.” Of what is this the picture? 
That hell is a place where desire and passion exist in 
their highest potency and where there is nothing to 
gratify them. There is another thing beside our mem- 
ory that we carry into the next world with us, we carry 
into that world the desires that we build up here. 
What are men and women who are living in sin and 
living in worldliness doing? They are developing in 
their souls desires until they become regnant for which 
there is no gratification in that world to which they 
are going. Happy is the man or woman who in this 
life set their affections on the things above, things that 
will exist in the life to which they are going, rather than 
cultivating desires and aspirations for which there is 
no satisfaction in the world to which they are hastening. 
But wretched indeed is that man or woman who culti- 
vates into ruling power passions and desires for which 
there is no gratification in that world which they will 
so soon enter. 

4. Hell is a place of shame. 

How awful and heartbreaking is the agony of shame. 
It drives thousands of people to suicide. Hell is a 
place where everybody is dishonored and where there 
is no relief in suicide. There is no place there to hide 
even for a moment from the shame that overwhelms its 
inhabitants. There is no relief for a moment day or 
night. It is always the same, one constant conscious- 
ness of dishonor and disgrace. 

5. Hell is a place of vile companionships . 

We have a picture of the society of hell in Rev. 21 :8, 
“ But the fearful, and unbelieving, and the abominable, 
and murderers, and whoremongers, and sorcerers, and 
idolaters, and all liars, shall have their part in the lake 


21 


HELL 


which burneth with fire and brimstone.” That is the 
society of hell. But some one will say, “ There are 
many brilliant and gifted persons who are going there.” 
True, but stop a moment and think, how long will it 
take the most gifted man or woman to sink in such 
a world as that. In any great city I can take you to the 
lowest dives and pick you out men who were once 
physicians, lawyers, congressmen, college professors, 
leading business men and even ministers of the Gos- 
pel, who are now living with thugs, moral lepers, out- 
laws, criminals and everything that is vile and bad. 
How did they get there ? They began to sink. It does 
not take one long to go down when they begin to sink. 
It does not take a man of the most brilliant intellect 
long to sink to the level of the lowest when he begins 
to sink. I recall a man who in my early days was 
one of the most brilliant orators I ever listened to, 
whom I afterwards saw a mental and moral wreck 
lying out upon our lawn in filth, sleeping off a drunk and 
he afterwards died in a madhouse through drink and 
tobacco. I recall a woman who was once regarded as 
one of the most brilliant society women and conver- 
sationalists in Chicago, one of the elect women’s com- 
mittee, who during the World’s Fair received the mem- 
bers of the nobility of the old world and the royalty of 
Spain. A few years afterward she was found in Chi- 
cago by some friends of mine who w'ere going through 
the slums hunting for poor forlorn ones that they might 
help. They found her a poor creature v*^ith nails 
grown like bird’s claws, long tangled matted hair cov- 
ered with filth, and face that had not been washed for 
weeks and clad in a single filthy garment, an utter 
v/reck. How did it happen? She had gone down 
through cocaine. In a world like hell it will not take 


HELL 


23 

the most brilliant man or woman who enters very long 
to sink beneath the level of the vilest moral leper who 
now slinks by night through the purlieus of our great 
cities. 

6. Hell is a world without hope, 

God in His Word does not hold out one ray of hope 
to any man who dies impenitent. It is argued that 
the word aionios translated “ everlasting ” never means 
everlasting. But any one who says so either has not 
looked into the matter, which is most likely, or else he 
tells a deliberate falsehood. It is true that the word 
does not necessarily and always mean everlasting. In- 
stances can be cited where it does not so mean. Wheth- 
er it does or not in any given instance is to be deter- 
mined by the context. In Matt. 25:46 we read, 
“ These shall go away into everlasting punishment but 
the righteous into life eternal.” The same Greek word 
is translated “ everlasting ” in the first part of the sen- 
tence and “ eternal ” in the last part of the sentence. 
If it means everlasting in one part of the verse (and 
every one holds that it does when applied to life) by 
every known law of exegesis it means the same in the 
other half of the verse. Our Lord was an honest man 
and He did not juggle with words and He would not 
use the same word to mean one thing in one half of 
the verse and something else in the other half of the 
verse. Furthermore, there is another expression “ Eis 
tous aionas ton aionon ” or “ Eis tous aionas aionon ” 
(“Unto the ages of the ages”). This expression is 
used twelve times in one book, eight times of the exis- 
tence of God and the duration of His reign, once of the 
duration of the blessedness of the righteous, and in 
every remaining instance of the punishment of the beast, 
the false prophet, and the impenitent. It represents 


HELL 


24 

not years tumbling upon years, nor centuries tumbling 
upon centuries, but ages tumbling upon ages in endless 
procession. It is the strongest known expression for 
absolute endlessness. 

I do not wonder that men try to find some hope 
regarding the ultimate condition of the lost. I too have 
tried to find it. It is an appalling thought to think 
that in that world of darkness there is absolutely not 
one ray of hope. But appalling as it is, if it is true 
let us face it. I have hunted my Bible through for 
one ray of hope for men that die impenitent, just one 
ray that could be called such when the passage was 
properly interpreted by the right laws of exegesis. Af- 
ter years of search I have failed to find one such pas- 
sage. I am familiar with the passages men quote. I 
have studied them with the utmost care. I tried to put 
upon them the construction that men who write of 
“ eternal hope ” put upon them, but I am satisfied they 
will not bear the burden placed upon them when care- 
fully interpreted in their context with an honest attempt 
to discover what they really mean, and not to make 
them fit a theory. The New Testament does not hold 
out one single ray of hope for men and women who 
die without Christ. Any one who dares to do so dares 
to do what God has not done. He takes a fearful 
responsibility upon himself. “ Forever and ever ” is 
the never ceasing wail of that restless sea of fire. As 
appalling as it is, let us face the facts and act accord- 
ingly. The conception is an awful and appalling one. 
It is, however, the Scriptural conception and also the 
reasonable one when we come to see the appalling nature 
of sin, and especially the appalling sin of trampling un- 
der foot God’s mercy toward sinners and rejecting 


HELL 


25 

God’s glorious Son whom His love has provided as a 
Saviour. 

Shallow views of sin and shallow views of God’s 
holiness and shallow views of the glory of Jesus Christ 
and His claims upon us, lie at the bottom of weak 
theories of the doom of the impenitent. When we 
see sin in all its wretchedness and enormity, the holi- 
ness of God in all its perfection, and the glory of Jesus 
Christ in all its infinity, nothing but a doctrine that 
those who persist in the choice of sin, who love dark- 
ness rather than light, and who persist in the rejection 
of the Son of God shall endure everlasting anguish will 
satisfy the demands of our own moral intuitions. 
Nothing but the fact that we dread suffering more than 
we love God and more than we love the glory of Jesus 
Christ, makes us repudiate the thought that beings who 
eternally choose sin shall eternally suffer, or that men 
who despise God’s mercy and spurn His Son shall be 
given over to endless anguish. Men who accept a 
loose doctrine regarding the ultimate penalty of sin 
lose their power for God. I have known of man after 
man who was once a power for God who has been led 
to accept the doctrine of “ Restoration,” or “ Univer- 
salism,” or “ Annihilationism ” and every such man that 
I have known has lost his power for God. 



A MESSAGE 

FROM 

A LOST SOUL 

OR 


LETTERS FROM HELL 


The reader will be impressed with the strong imaginative en- 
ergy, and powerful statements of truth in these letters: Truth as 
to our relations to God, and man, and duty, and conscience ; the 
awful verity, that men make their fate in unmaking themselves; 
that in defacing the image of God in them, they construct for them- 
selves a world of horror and dismay ; that their own deeds and 
character are the creating cause of the outer darkness. It will be 
observed that the faint ray of possible hope, now and then ex- 
pressed, always vanishes in the blackness of despair. The title to 
these letters is fearful, but the letters are more fearful. In horror 
they are supreme and unparalleled. If they rouse any soul to seek 
to know God, through Jesus Christ, and obtain eternal life, and 
thereby avoid the horrors of the lost, they will have served their 
purpose. 


LETTER 1. 


I FELT the approach of death. There had been a time 
of unconsciousness following upon the sfiiverings and 
wild fancies of fever. Once more I seemed to be 
waking; but what a waking! The power of life was 
gone : I lay weak and helpless, unable to move hand 
or foot; the eyelids which I had raised, closed again 
paralyzed; the tongue had grown too large for the 
parched mouth ; the voice — my own voice — sounded 
strange in my ears. I heard those say that watched 
me — they thought I understood not — “He is past 
suffering.” Was I? Ah me! I suffered more than 
human soul can imagine." I had a terrible conviction 
that I lay dying, death creeping nearer. I had always 
shrunk from the bare thought of it, but I never knew 
what it meant to be dying, never before that hour. 
Hour? — nay, the hours drifted into days and the days 
seemed one awful hour of horror and agony at the 
boundary line of life. 

Where was faith? I had believed once, but that 
was long ago. Vainly I tried to call back some shred 
of belief; the poorest remnant of faith would have 
seemed a wealth of comfort in the deep anguish of soul 
that compassed me about. There was nothing I could ^ 
cling to — nothing to uphold me. Like a drowning 
man I would have snatched at a straw even; but there 
was nothing — nothing ! That is a terrible word ; one 
word only in all human utterance being more terrible 
still — too late! too late! Vainly I struggled; an 
agonizing fear consumed what was left of me. 

29 


30 


A MESSAGE 


And that which I would not call back stood up be- 
fore my failing perception with an unsought clearness 
and completeness of vision — the life which lay behind 
me, and now was ebbing away. But little good had 
I done in that life, and much evil. I saw it: it stood 
out as a fearful fact from the background of conscious- 
ness. I had. lived a life of selfishness, ever pleasing my 
own desire. It was true, awfully true, that I had not 
followed the way of life, but the paths of death since 
the days even of childhood. And now I lay dying, a 
victim of my own folly, wretched, helplessly lost ! One 
after another my sins rose before me, crying for ex- 
piation ; but it was too late now — too late for repen- 
tance. Despair only was left; the very thought of 
repentance had faded from the brain. 

Not yet fifty years old, possessed of everything that 
could make life pleasant, and yet to die — it seemed im- 
possible, though I felt that death even then had entered 
my being. There was death within me, and death 
without; it spoke from the half-light of the sick cham- 
ber; it spoke from every feature of the watchers about 
me; it spoke from the churchyard silence that cur- 
tained my couch. It was a fearful hour, and I, the 
chief person, the center of all that horror — every eye 
upon me, every ear listening for my parting breath. A 
shudder went through me : I felt as one already buried 
— buried alive ! 

One thought of comfort seemed left — I snatched at 
it : it won’t go worse with you than with most people ! 
Is there anything that could have shown the depth of 
my wretchedness more clearly than the fact that I could 
comfort myself with such miserable assurance? Was it 
not the very cause of all my misery that I had come 
by the broad way chosen by the many? 


FROM A LOST SOUL 31 

But what avails it now to depict the horrors of my 
last struggle, since no living soul could comprehend my 
sufferings, or understand what I felt, on entering the 
gates of death. Hell was within me. No, no; it was 
as yet but approaching. 

The end drew nigh. Once more I raised my eyes, 
and beheld the terror distorting niy own features re- 
flected from the faces that watched me. A deep-drawn 
sigh, a gurgling moan, a last convulsive wrench — and 
I was gone. . . . 

An unknown sensation laid hold of me. What was 
this I felt? Death had clutched my every fibre, but 
I seemed released, free, strangely free ! Consciousness 
had been fading, but was returning even now, waking 
as from a swoon. Where was I? Mist and night, 
desolation and emptiness, enveloped me; but the dismal 
space could not be called dark, for I could see, although 
there was not a ray of light to aid me. The first feel- 
ing creeping through me was a sensation of cold, of 
inward cold, rising from the very roots of being; chill 
after chill went through me; I shuddered with chatter- 
ing teeth. And an indescribable loathing seized me, 
born of the nauseous vapors that wrapt me about. 
Where was I ? My mind reverted to the story of the 
rich man who, having died, lifted up his eyes in hell. 
Was I the rich man ? But that could not be ; for of him 
the story tells that he longed for a single drop of water 
to cool his tongue, and it says he was tormented in 
flame. Now I was shivering — shivering with a fear- 
ful cold. Yet it is true, nevertheless — terribly time — 
about the tormenting fire, as I found out ere long. 

But consciousness, at first, seemed returned chiefly to 
experience an indescribable feeling of nakedness, which, 
indeed, might explain the terrible cold assailing me. I 


32 A MESSAGE 

still believed in my personal identity, but I was merely 
a shadow of myself. The eye which saw, the teeth 
which chattered, did not exist any more than the rest of 
my earthly body existed. All that was left of me was 
a shade unclothed to the skin — nay, to the inmost 
soul. No wonder I shivered; no wonder I felt naked. 
But the feeling of nakedness, strong as it was, excluded 
shame. 

It did not exclude a sense of utter wretchedness. All 
the manliness, my pride of former days, had left me. 
Men despise abject cowards I know, but I had sunk 
below the contempt even of such a name. Wretched, 
unutterably wretched, I was making my entry into hell 
at the very time when my obsequies, no doubt, were 
about to be celebrated on earth with all the pomp be- 
fitting the figure I had played. What booted it that 
some priest with solemn chant should count me blessed, 
assuring the mourners that I had gained the realms of 
glory where tears are wiped away and sorrow Is no 
more? what booted it, alas! since I, miserable I, was 
even then awaking to the pangs of hell? Woe is me 
— ah, woe indeed I 

I hastened onward. Was that earth, or what, that 
touched my feet? It was soft, spongy — a queer 
pavement! Possibly It consisted of those good Inten- 
tions with which, as some one has pointed out, the road 
to hell Is paved. Walking felt strangely unpleasant, 
but I got along, walking or flitting, I know not which, 
nor yet how fast; on I went through mist or darkness, or 
whatever It was. In the far distance. It might be some 
thousands of miles away, I perceived a glimmering 
light, and Instinctively towards that light I directed my 
course. The mist seemed to grow less dense, forms 
took shape about me, but they might be merely the 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


33 

work of imagination; shadowy outlines of castles, pal- 
aces, and houses appearing through the mist. Some- 
times it was as if my blind haste carried me right 
through one of these ghostly structures. After a while 
I began to distinguish human phantoms flitting along, 
singly at first, but soon in greater number. I viewed 
them with horror, fully aware at the same time that 
they were merely beings like myself. Suddenly a 
troop of these spirits surrounded me. I burst from 
them, tremblingly, but only to be seized upon by anoth- 
er troop. I say seized upon, for they snatched at me 
eagerly, as if each one meant to hold me fast, shade 
though I was. Vainly they tried to detain me, raising 
their cries incessantly. But what cries! Their voices 
fell on my ear as a miserable wheezing, a dismal moan- 
ing. In my horror I gave a scream, and lo 1 it was the 
same puny frightful sound. There was such a whirr 
of voices, I could not possibly make them out; not, at 
least, beyond certain constantly repeated questions, like, 
“Whence do you come?” or, “What is the news?” 
Poor me, what cared I for the news left behind? And 
it was not so much the question, whence? but rather its 
awful opposite, whither bound? that filled my soul. 

Luckily there were other miserable wanderers speed- 
ing along the same road, and while the swarming troops 
tried to stop them I managed to escape. On I went, 
panting, not for bodily, but spiritual, distress, till at 
last I reached a lonely spot where I might try to collect 
myself. 

Collect myself! What was there left to collect — 
what availed it to consider, since I was lost, hopelessly 
lost? 

Overpowered with that thought I sank to the ground. 
This, then, was what I had come to. I had died and 


A MESSAGE 


34 

found myself in hell, In the place of weeping and gnash- 
ing of teeth, of torment, alas, beyond conception. This, 
then, was the end of life’s enjoyment. Why, ah why, 
had I been satisfied to halt between faith and unbelief, 
between heaven and hell, to the last moment? A few 
short months ago, or, who knows, perhaps, even a few 
days before the terrible end. It might have been time 
still to escape so dire a fate. But blindly I had walked 
to destruction ; blindly ? — nay, open-eyed, and I de- 
served no better. 

This latter thought was not without a touch of bitter 
satisfaction. After all, even hell had something left 
that resembled satisfaction ! But, In truth, I hated my- 
self with a burning Implacable hatred In- spite of the self- 
love which had accompanied me hither unimpaired. 
And remembering the many so-called good Intentions of 
my sinful life, I felt ready to tear myself to pieces. In 
sooth, I myself had assisted diligently In paving the 
road to hell ! 

But that feeling was void of contrition. I felt sad; 
I felt ruined and miserably undone. I condemned, I 
cursed myself; but repentance was far from me. Oh, 
could I but repent! I know there Is such a thing, but 
the power of repenting Is gone, gone for ever. I did 
not at first see myself and my position as I do now. I 
only felt miserable and hopelessly lost. And though I 
hated myself, at the same time I pitied myself most 
deeply. Would that I could have wept! Poor Dives 
sighed for a drop of water; I kept sighing for a tear, a 
poor human tear, for somehow I felt that tears could 
unbind me from all my grief. I consumed my powers 
In vain efforts to weep, but even tears were of the good 
things beyond me now. The effort shook my soul, but 
it was vain, vain ! 


FROM A LOST SOUL 35 

I started suddenly; there was a voice beside me, a 
young woman with a babe on her arm. 

“ It is hopeless trying,’^ she said, almost tenderly, 
her features even more than her voice bespeaking sym- 
pathy. “ I myself have tried it, and tried again; but 
it’s no use. There is no water here, not as much even 
as a single tear.” 

Alas, I felt she spoke the truth. The time was when 
I might have wept, but I would not; now I longed to 
weep, but could not. 

The young woman — she was hardly more than a 
girl — sat down beside me. Indescribably touching 
was the expression of sorrowing fondness with which 
she gazed upon the babe in her lap, a tiny thing which 
apparently had not lived many days. 

After a pause she turned again to me. It was not 
I, but the child which occupied her attention. 

“ Don’t you think my baby is alive? ” she said. “ It 
is not dead, tell me, though it lies so still and never 
gives a cry.” 

To tell the truth I thought the child was dead, but 
I had it not in me to grieve the poor creature, so I 
said — 

“ It may be asleep — babies do sleep a good deal.” 

“Yes, yes, it is asleep,” she repeated, rocking the 
child softly. 

But I sat trembling at the sound of my own voice, 
which for the first time had shaped itself to words. 

“ They say I killed my child, my own little baby,” 
she continued. “ But don’t you think they talk fool- 
ishly? How should a mother find it in her heart to 
kill her child, her very own child?” and she pressed 
the little thing to her bosom with convulsive tenderness. 

The sight was more than I could endure. I rose and 
3 


36 A MESSAGE 

left her. Yet it soothed my own misery that for a 
moment I seemed filled with another’s grief rather than 
with my own. Her grief I could leave behind. I rose 
and fled but my own wretchedness followed on my 
heels. 

Away I went, steering towards the distant light. It 
was as though a magic power drove me in that direc- 
tion. To the right and left of me the realms of mist 
appeared cultivated and inhabited. Strange, fantastic 
shapes and figures met my view, but they seemed shad- 
ows only of things and men. Much that I saw filled me 
with terror, while everything added to my pain. By 
degrees, however, I began to understand that wretched 
negativeness of existence. I gathered experience as I 
went on, but what experience? Let me bury it in 
silence. One incident I will record, since it explains 
how I first came to comprehend that horror-teeming 
state of things. 

I was stopping in front of one of those transparently 
shadowy structures; it appeared to be a tavern. In 
the world I used to despise such localities, and would 
never have demeaned myself by entering one. But 
now it was all the same to me. They were making 
merry within, I saw, — drinking, gambling, and what 
not. But it was an awful merriment in which these 
horrible shades were engaged. One of them, to all 
appearance the landlord, beckoned me to enter; an in- 
viting fire was blazing on the hearth, and, shivering as 
I was, I went towards it straightway. 

“ Can’t you come in by the door? ” snarled the land- 
lord, stopping me rudely. 

Abashed I stammered, “ I am so cold, so miserably 
cold!” 

“ The more fool you for going naked 1 ” cried the fel- 


FROM A LOST SOUL 37 

low, with an ugly grin. “We admit well-dressed peo- 
ple as a rule.” 

Involuntarily I thought of my soft Turkish dressing- 
gown and Its warm belongings, when, lo ! scarcely had 
the Idea been shaped In my brain than I found myself 
clothed In dressing-gown, smoking-cap, and slippers. 
At the same time my nakedness was not covered, and I 
felt as cold as before. 

I moved towards the hearth, putting my trembling 
hands to the grate ; but the blaze emitted no warmth — 
it might as well have been painted on canvas. 

I turned away In despair. The merry-making shades 
laughed harshly, calling me a fool for my pains. One 
of them handed me a goblet. Now I had never been a 
drunkard, but that feeling of Indescribable emptiness 
within me prompted me to seize the cup, lifting It to 
my lips eagerly that I might drain It on the spot. But 
alas the nothingness ! my burning desire found It an 
empty cup, and I felt ready to faint. 

My horror must have expressed Itself In my features, 
for they laughed louder than ever, grinning at my dis- 
appointment. I bore It quietly. There was something 
frightfully repulsive In their unnatural merriment, cut- 
ting me to the soul. 

The carousal continued ; I, with wildly-confused Ideas, 
watching the strange revelry. 

Recovering myself, I turned to the churlish landlord : 

“ What house Is this? ” I asked, with a voice as un- 
pleasant and gnarling as his own. 

“ It’s my house ! ” 

That was not much of Information, so I asked again 
after a while: “How did It come to be here — the 
house I mean — and everything?” 

The landlord looked at me with a sneer that plainly 


A MESSAGE 


38 

said, ‘‘ You greenhorn, you ! ” vouchsafing however 
presently: “How it came here? — why, I thought of 
it, and then it was.” 

That was light on the subject. “ Then the house is 
merely an idea ? ” I went on. 

“ Yes, of course; what else should it be? ” 

“ Ah, indeed, youngster,” cried one of the gamblers, 
turning upon me, “ here we are in the true land of 
magic, the like of which was never heard of on earth. 
We need but imagine a thing, and then we have it. 
Hurrah, I say, ’tis a merry place ! ” and with frightful 
laughter that betokened anything but satisfaction, he 
threw the dice upon the table. 

Now I understood. The house was imaginary, the 
fire without warmth, the tapers without light, the cards, 
the dice, the drink, the torn apron even of the landlord 
— everything, in short, existed merely in imagination. 
One thing only was no empty idea, but fearful reality — 
the terrible necessity which forced these shadowy sem- 
blances of men to appear to be doing now in the spirit 
the very things they did in the body upon earth. For 
this reason the landlord was obliged to keep a low 
tavern ; for this reason the company that gathered there 
must gamble, drink, and swear, pretending wanton mer- 
riment, despair gnawing their hearts the while. 

I looked at myself. This clothing then which could 
not cover me, far less warm my frozen limbs, was but 
the jugglery of desiring thought. “Lie! falsehood! 
away! ” I cried. Oh that I could get away from my- 
self! Alas! wretch that I was, I could at best escape 
but the clothing which was no clothing. I tore it from 
me, rushing away in headlong flight, conscious only of 
my own miserable nakedness, fiendish peals of laughter 
following me like the croaking of multitudinous frogs. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 39 

How long I wandered, restless spirit that I was, I 
cannot tell. If there were such a thing as division of 
time in hell, doubtless it would be imaginary like every- 
thing else. The distant light was still my goal. But 
so far from reaching it, I seemed to perceive that it 
grew weaker and weaker. This, at first, I took to be 
some delusion on my part, but the certainty presently 
was beyond a doubt. The light did decrease till at last 
it was the mere ghost of a radiance; it was plain I 
should find myself in utter darkness before long. 

It was a fact, then, scarcely to be believed, but a fact 
nevertheless, that, miserable as I was, I could be more 
miserable still. I shrunk together within myself, anx- 
ious, as far as lay with me, to escape the doings of the 
dead. People on earth may think that even in Hades 
it must be a blessing rather than a bane to occupy one’s 
thoughts with the affairs of others. Oh, happy mor- 
tals, happy with all your griefs and woes, you judge 
according to your earthly capacities. There is no such 
blessing here, no occupying one’s thoughts against their 
own dire drift! And as for diversion, that miserable 
anodyne for earthborn trouble, it is a thing of the past 
once you have closed your eyes in death. 

It is impossible for me to tell you, since you could 
not comprehend, to what extent a man here may shrink 
together within himself. Be it enough to say I cow- 
ered as a toad in a hole, hugging my miserable being, 
till I was roused by a groan coming from somewhere 
beside me. I started affrighted and looked about. 
The darkness being still increasing, I, with difficulty, 
distinguished another cowering figure looking at me 
furtively. The face was strangely distorted, and the 
creature had a rope round its neck, the hands being 
constantly trying to secure the ends ; at times also a fin- 


A MESSAGE 


40 

ger would move round the neck as if to loosen the rope. 
The figure looked at me with eyes of terror starting 
from the head, but not a word would cross the lips. 
It was plain I must make the beginning. 

“ The light is decreasing,” I said, pointing in the di- 
rection whence the pale glimmer emanated. “ I fear 
we shall be in the dark presently.” 

“ Yes,” said the figure, with a gurgling voice; “ it will 
be night directly.” 

“How long will it last?” 

“How should I know? It may be some hours, it 
may be a hundred years.” 

“ Is there such difference of duration?” 

“We don’t perceive the difference; it is always long, 
frightfully long,” said the figure, with a dismal moan. 

“ But it is quite certain, is it not, that daylight will 
reappear?” 

“If you call that daylight which we used to call dusk 
upon earth, we never get more. I strongly suspect that 
it is not daylight at all; however, that matters little. 
I see you are a newcomer here.” 

I could but answer with a sigh, “ Yes, quite new; I 
died but lately.” 

“A natural death?” queried the spectre. 

“To be sure; what else?” 

That “ what else ” evidently displeased the creature ; 
the distorted face looked at me with a horrible grimace, 
and there was silence. 

I, for my part, cared little to continue so unpleasant 
a conversation, but the spectre resumed ere long: 

“ It is hard to be doomed to carry one’s life in one’s 
hands. There is no rest for me anywhere; I am for 
ever trying to escape; there is not a creature but wants 
to hang me. Indeed, you are capable of doing it your- 


FROM A LOST SOUL 41 

self, I see it in your eyes; only being fresh here you are 
too bewildered as yet with your own fate to be really 
dangerous. Do you see the ends of that rope? It is 
my one aim to prevent people getting hold of them, for 
if once they succeed I shall be hanged in a jiffy.” 

The spectre paused, going on presently : 

“ It is but foolishness and imagination I know; tor 
since no one can take what I have not got, how should 
any one take my life? But I am utterly helpless, and 
whenever this foolish fear posssesses me afresh, I must 
run — run as though I had a thousand lives to lose — 
as though hell were peopled with murderous hangmen.” 

The spectre moaned, again trying to loosen the rope 
with a finger, and the moaning died away into silence. 

We sat, but not for long. I made some movement 
with the arm nearest my wretched neighbor. Evidently 
he imagined I was for seizing the rope, the ends of 
which he was tightly grasping, and, like a flash of light- 
ning, he vanished from my side. 


LETTER II. 


I STAYED where I was, and soon found myself buried 
in darkness. Did I say 5oow.^ Fool that I am! How 
can I tell what length of time passed before it became 
absolutely dark? One thing only I know, that darkness 
grew with increasing rapidity and density till it was com- 
plete at last. At last? — when but a moment since I 
called it soon? How unfit I am to judge at all! 

How shall I describe the darkness? Mortal man 
are apt to say it is to be felt, or to be cut with a knife, 
could never conceive it. Of very great darkness people 
But even such manner of speech will not define the night 
of hell. Darkness here is so dense, so heavy, it op- 
presses poor souls as Avith the weight of centuries; 
it is as though one Avere w^edged in between mountains, 
unable to move, unable to breathe. It is night beyond 
all earthly conception; perhaps that is why the Bible 
calls it the outer darkness, Avhich, I take it, means utter- 
most. 

Thus I was sitting in the narrowest prison, shivering 
with cold, trembling with terror, miserable, wretched 
beyond utterance; I, who but a short while since had the 
world at my feet, enjoying life, and the riches and 
pleasure thereof. Shivering with cold — yes, but I 
must add, consumed with an inward fire. 

Terrible truth! That the torment of hell should 
consist in an awful contrast — cold without and a con- 
suming fire within, compared to which the burning 
sands of Sahara even seem cool as the limpid wave. 
And what shall I say of the unutterable anguish — 

42 


FROM A LOST SOUL 43 

hell’s constant fear of death? For with the growing 
darkness a growing fear falls upon the tortured soul, 
agonizing as the pangs of death. Happy if they were 
but pangs of death ! but there is no dying here, only a 
continuous living over again in the spirit of that most 
dread of earthly conflicts, a panting for life, as it were, 
a wailing and moaning, with pitiful cries for mercy, 
cries for help, but they fall back upon the soul unheard 
— unheard ! 

Do you know what it is to be lying on a bed of misery 
night after night, courting sleep in vain, worn with afflic- 
tion, trouble, or grief? Let me tell you, then, that this 
is sheer bliss as compared with the sufferings of a night 
here, endless in pain as it seems in duration. For at 
last, poor earthly sufferer, your very sorrows become 
your lullaby; nature claims her due; you sleep, and sleep 
drowns you woe, transfiguring it even with rosy-fingered 
dreams, restoring you to strength the while. And you 
awake to find that a new day has risen, with grace and 
hope, and smiling with fresh endeavor. 

Happy mortal — ay, thrice happy — whatever your 
lot may be, however poor and sorrowful you may deem 
it. For remember that as compared with us here, the 
most miserable beneath the sun might call themselves 
blessed, if only they could free themeslves from delusion 
and take their troubles for what they are. For, strange 
as it may sound, in the world, which we know to be a 
world of realities, trouble more or less consists in im- 
agination — “thinking makes it so;” whereas here, 
where all is shadow and nothingness, misery alone is 
real. In the world so much depends on how one takes 
trouble; in hell there is but one way of bearing it — 
the hard, unyielding must. 

Oh to be able to sleep, to forget oneself though but 


A MESSAGE 


44 

for a moment, — what mercy, what bliss ! But why do 
I add to my pangs by thinking of the impossible? I 
seem to be weeping, as I write this, bitter tears, but they 
blot not the unhappy record; like leaden tears they fall 
back upon the soul, adding to her weight. Did I say 
tears ? Ah, believe me it is but a fashion of speaking ! 

Thus I sat, spending the endless night — a night of 
death I had better call it, since it differs so terribly from 
the worst nights I knew on earth. I suffered an agony 
of cold, but within me there burned the quenchless tor- 
ment of sin and sinful desire — a twofold flame, I 
know not which was strongest; it seized upon me alter- 
nately, my thoughts adding fuel to the terrible glow. 

My sins ! What boots it now to remember them, but 
I must — I must. The life of sin is behind me, finished 
and closed; but with fearful distinctness it lies open to 
my vision, as a page to be read, not merely as a whole, 
but in all its minutest parts. I seem to have found it 
out now only that I am a sinner, or rather that I was one, 
for on earth I somehow did not know it. The success- 
ful way in which I managed to suppress that conscious- 
ness almost entirely seems to prove, if not my own, at 
any rate the devil’s consummate skill. I say almost en- 
tirely; I could not stifle it altogether, but I managed to 
keep it in a prison so close that it troubled me rarely. 
And if conscience at times made efforts to be heard, the 
voice was so gentle that I never hesitated to disregard it. 
Yes, Satan succeeded so well with me that I never 
thought of my sins, really forgot them as though they 
were not. 

But now — now ? that seeming forgetting truly was 
the devil’s deceit. My sins are all present now; I see 
them, every one of them, and none is wanting; and in- 
deed their number is far greater than I could have be- 


FROM A LOST SOUL 45 

lieved possible. A diousand trivial things — not trifles 
here, though I once believed them such — raise their 
front in bitter accusation. Life lies before me as an 
open book, a record of minutest detail, and what seemed 
scarce worth the notice once has now assumed its own 
terrible importance — sin succeeding sin, and the re- 
mainder folly. My anguished soul turns hither and 
thither, writhing and moaning; not a spot is left where 
she might rest — not a moment’s peace to soothe her; 
shut in with sins innumerable, she is the prey of despair. 

And yet I never was what the world calls a bad man. 
I was selfish, but not void of natural pity; having a car- 
nal mind, but not barren of intellectual tasts; ruled by 
strong appetites, but too much of a gentleman to 
give open cause of offense. I was even good-natured, 
helpful and kind, where it did not clash with some dom- 
inant passion. Indeed I was not only a general favor- 
ite, but enjoyed universal respect. In short, I was a 
man whom the world could approve of, and if I cared 
not to serve the world, the more was I desirous it should 
serve me. Without faith, and following no aim, I 
lived to enjoy the moment. Yet I was not always with- 
out faith. There had been a time, in the far-off days 
of childhood when I believed lovingly, ardently; but on 
entering the world faith, having no root, faded as a 
flower in the noonday heat. And once again, having 
reached a certain point in my life, it seemed to revive, 
to blossom anew; but everything failing, it also failed, 
and never yielded fruit. At the same time I had never 
quite plucked it out of the heart. To my dying hour 
I had a feeling that something of the God-seeking child 
was latent within me, of the childhood in which I be- 
gan, but never continued. 

In the days of manhood I followed passion. Do you 


A MESSAGE 


46 

care to inquire? Fashionable amusement, the excite- 
ment of fast living, the enjoyment of beauty, piquant 
adventure, the pleasure of the senses in short — that 
is what I lived for. 

Oh the fire within me — kindled long ago, in the 
days even of bodily life ! It did not then cause the pain 
it causes now, or rather — since fire cannot be dis- 
sociated from suffering — it burned with a pain akin 
to delight. But now, alas ! there is a consuming empti- 
ness within, desire feeding upon imagination, feeding 
upon my very soul unappeasably. To be burnt alive 
would be as nothing compared to that torment, for then 
the hope would remain that there must be an end. But 
there is no end now, no hope of deliverance. 

And yet I have not confessed all the pangs of that 
terrible first night. I am ashamed to own what I 
may not hide ! For, apart from all those horrors com- 
mon to all, I have a grief to myself alone — most of 
those here have a load of pain, pertaining to themselves 
only — an aching sorrow weighing upon my soul dis- 
tinctly separate from all general woes ; it has not left me 
for a moment since first I opened my eyes in hell. It 
is but a little story, but one of those experiences which 
are of far deeper importance in our lives than would 
seem credible. 

My thirty-first birthday found me in a village tavern 
away from home. After more than a year’s absence 
— the journey extending as far as the Holy Land — I 
was returning the unhappiest of mankind, bowed down 
with mourning, and ill bearing the hurt of disappointed 
passion. Three we had been on setting out, two only 
returning. Journeying homeward we stopped on the 
road, a sudden storm obliging us to seek shelter in a 
common inn. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 47 

There are strange things in life. Having for months 
been dead to all sympathy, it was so ordered that I 
should find here an object to rouse me from my stupor 
— to call me back to life. It was but a ragged boy, 
some eight or nine years old, whose mother had been 
one of a troop of strolling actors. For some reason or 
other the company had broken up, and her body pres- 
ently was found in a neighboring swamp. He was a 
poor little fellow, forlorn and neglected, and as shy as 
a wild thing of the field, disconsolate in his grief. He 
had loved tenderly, passionately — so had I ; he had lost 
all he had loved — so had I. 

But there was more. The boy’s nature fascinated 
me strangely. His impetuosity, his stand-off pride, even 
his intractable wildness, somehow struck a congenial 
chord in my own deepest soul. I felt as if I, 1 only, 
could understand him; as if I, in his place, would have 
been just like him. And despite his rags he was a lovely 
boy. Those dark tearful eyes had an expression that 
went to the heart; those uncombed locks overhung fea- 
tures which, without being regularly handsome, were 
intensely attractive. In short, it was one of those boy- 
faces which Murillo loved to paint. What shall I say, 
but that the child from the first moment caught my 
heart ? As no one cared to have him, I took him with 
me . 

His mother had gone by the name of Rosalind. The 
boy just called her “ mother,” and knew no other name. 
But the appellation Rosalind to all appearance pertained 
to the actress only, and there was nothing left to give 
a clue to her identity. If there had been anything the 
poor creature took it with her to her watery grave. The 
only thing leaving a faint hope of eventual discovery 
was the figure of a swan surrounded by unintelligible 


A MESSAGE 


48 

hieroglyphics imperishably etched upon the boy’s right 
arm. He went by the common name of Martin, and 
spoke a jargon, a jumble rather of several languages, 
but fraught with unmistakable echoes of my own native 
tongue. 

I took him with me. Three we were on setting out, 
three returning — but what a change ! 

He grew up in my care, a nameless foundling. I 
never discovered the faintest light to unravel the mys- 
tery of his birth; but I always believed that the swan 
upon his arm sooner or later would assist in explaining 
his extraction. Martin hardly ever quitted my presence, 
and people said I had adopted him by way of a play- 
thing. Maybe there was some truth in this. The boy’s 
lower nature blossomed luxuriantly, at the cost, surely, 
of his moral development. Conscious of force, and ex- 
uberant with unshaped longings, passionate and self- 
willed, he was nowise easily managed. I am ashamed 
to say I sometimes took an evil delight in playing with 
the child’s slumbering passions, now exciting them to 
full liberty, now reining them up suddenly. Still, he 
was more than a plaything to me : he ruled my heart. 
This may partly be accounted for by the fact that I 
saw my own nature reflected in the boy’s; perhaps, also, 
the strange affection was merely fancy-born, the whim 
of a moment growing into habit. That much is certain, 
I loved the boy. And I could count them on my fingers, 
I fear, whom I loved beside myself. 

The child responded to my affection ardently, passion- 
ately. It sometimes happened, when I had teased him 
in ungenerous amusement, and he, stung to fury, re- 
fused submission, that I, in assertion of power, would 
place my foot upon his neck, when he would humble 
himself suddenly, and clasping my knees, would wail for 


FROM A LOST SOUL 49 

forgiveness. At such moments he would have borne the 
vilest cruelty, patiently hoping for a return of tender- 
ness. He whom the direst punishment at times could 
not move, now spent himself in tears at my feet, looking 
to me as to the one soul beside him In the universe. 
That love of the child’s touched me deeply, appealing 
to all that was best and truest In my heart. We would 
make peace again and renew the bond of affection, 
which was tied all the faster for such Incidents. Thus 
love moved between us, swelling In tides, now of wrath, 
now of tenderness, till suddenly I discovered that the 
boy had grown — grown to be a man in my likeness, 
strong In the flesh and of powerful self-love. 

And the time was which ripened Into a crisis between 
us, worse than anything that had happened before. He 
had defied me where I could never brook defiance, and 
I cast him from me. How could the fellow dare to 
rival me In woman’s favor! 

He left me. Insulted but unconquered, and burning 
with scorn. I should never see him again, he said; and 
he was the man to do as he threatened. Some time 
after I received a letter from him, offering me the al- 
ternative of yielding to him or losing him — he would 
go to the Turks, to the devil, he said. I took no notice 
of that ultimatum, but demanded his entire surrender, 
unconditionally. Time passed and I began to think I 
had lost him. It was a fear which troubled me, preyed 
upon me; for whatever our disagreement, I loved him 
still. And If Indeed he were lost, my heart told me that 
I — I had worked his ruin. 

And then I fell 111 of that last Illness, ending in death. 
There came a second letter against all expectation, mys- 
teriously expressed but plain of Import. He wrote 
humbly, gently, as I had never known him. 


A MESSAGE 


50 

He entreated me to see him ; he would come back to 
me a repentant child. He had found out that which 
would heal every breach between us: a Higher Power 
had spoken. There was mention of her in the letter, 
but all was so broken, so ambiguously expressed, that it 
left me quite in the dark as to whether his discovery con- 
cerned himself or her. 

The letter remained unanswered; I was too ill to 
write, and cared not to trust any third person with a 
message between us. 

What, then, was his discovery to have worked such 
a change in him? and whom did it concern, himself or 
her? That question troubled me to my dying moment, 
and who knows but that it proved a nail also in my 
coffin. Erinnys-like it pursued me to very hell, adding 
more than anything else to my torment here. As a live 
coal it burns upon my soul. What was it about him 
or about her? And there are other questions: How 
did it go with him when I had cast him off — I, whom 
alone he loved and knew upon earth? Was I indeed 
the cause of his ruin? Alas! these things are a hell in 
hell! 


I 


LETTER III. 


How long I sat, shut in with myself and darkness, 
how long that terrible night continued, I cannot tell — 
maybe a year, maybe some hours only. This only I 
know, that in the space of that single night I lived over 
again the whole of my earthly life, and what incon- 
ceivable horrors are included in this statement ! 

Light broke at last, but oh how slowly! The walls 
of darkness seemed to shift, making way for the faintest 
streak of dawn. This time of expectation, of hope — 
if so I may call it — was the least painful time I had 
yet known in hell. And as I waited, longed for the re- 
turning light, a shadow, as it were, of forgetfulness 
wrapped me about. Ah, surely forgetfulness is the one 
state of bliss to be imagined here 1 Did I speak of 
light? Alas it is only less of darkness — light there is 
none in hell. And forgetfulness is not real, but illusive 
here. 

But poor as the light was, it roused me to something 
like love of existence even. I gathered up my wretched 
being and went my way, following the direction of the 
breaking dawn. How long I moved, or how far, is of 
no consequence. The terrors of hell were about me. 
Presently, however, I reached a spot where I could rest. 
Did I say rest ? Once for all, let me beg you not to be 
misled by such meaningless expressions — meaningless 
here, and proving old habit merely. In this place 
of anguish rest, in the sense you take it, naturally is im- 
possible; all I meant to say is that I reached a spot 
4 51 


52 'A MESSAGE 

where the pressure of motion quitted me for a while, 
and I stopped. 

It is strange how soon I came to understand my sur- 
roundings, how soon I found my way among the vain 
appearances and the wretched nothingness about me. 
Instinctively I adapted myself to what I saw, doing as 
others did — in a manner however, shaped by my own 
individuality. I knew I was only adding my paltry 
share, that hell might be, what it is, a caricature of the 
world and her doings. I knew, moreover, that I was 
being mocked the while, a very fool of vanities. 

You must know, then, that each wretched being here 
is moved by an irresistible impluse to imitate his life on 
earth, to continue what in sinful folly he worked in that 
life. And, strange to say, as I have already hinted, we 
can all obtain here what we like; one need but think of 
anything, and there it is. Passion and wrongful desires 
rule here as they do in the world, only the more horribly, 
being void of substance. In the world they are clothed 
— clothed in a semblance of beauty even; lawless and 
pernicious though they are, they at least own the gar- 
ment of nature. But here they are mere skeletons, un- 
clothed of the flesh, an insult to nature, continuing in the 
evil bent of former habit, yet incapable of aught but 
showing their miserable nakedness. For the imaginings 
of hell are hollow and empty, void of truth and reality, 
bereft of all means of satisfaction. And yet the very 
punishment of hell consists in this, that we are driven to 
conform to this maddening unreality, this death-breath- 
ing nothingness. No matter how deeply conscious we 
are of the vanity of our doings — no matter how we 
loath them — they have come to be our masters ; we are 
driven, helplessly driven, to for ever trying to be what 
we were on earth. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 53 

Supposing, then, that a number of spirits agree we 
will have a town here, that town straightway appears 
on the scene; or if others say, let us have a church here 
and a theatre and a public park, or woods and a lake 
and mountains, It Is all there as soon as imagined. And 
not only that each one sees for himself what he has 
called up in vain desire : It Is seen by all with whom he 
comes into contact. But everything is shadowy — nay, 
less than shadowy: it is empty conceit. Such a state 
naturally includes change upon change. Incessant unrest; 
this also Is vanity. 

Neither is there any lack of assisting spirits to carry 
into effect any desired show. Does any one here wish 
to set-up an establishment, to live In style, as the phrase 
went on earth, he Is straightway surrounded by faithless 
stewards, drunken butlers, thieving servants of all kinds. 
If you Imagine that no one would care to be a servant 
here, you are mistaken, for the Inhabitants of hell, in a 
mere outward way also, carry on the habits of life. Is 
there any one here who likes to general an army, he will 
find plenty of bloodthirsty ruffians to obey his behests, 
provided Indeed he was a general In his days gone by; 
for mind you, without a name a man even here could 
not make his way. 

Upon this Information you will not be surprised to 
learn that I have a pleasant abode here not far from 
town, the Image of my own old country-house, with park 
and river to please my fancy ; that I am a gentleman, and 
see much company. I frequent fashionable society now 
as formerly, since It yields me gratification, both private 
and public. Few men knew and drained the sources of 
enjoyment more thoroughly than I did. But now? — 
ah, pity me not, for your pity cannot alter the fact. 
This then Is the misery of hell for me; I am hungering 


A MESSAGE 


54 

after enjoyment, pure or impure, but there is no sense 
left to gratify; reality has vanished, the greed only re- 
mains. Is it not madness? 

And let me whisper it to you, I am daily meeting 
friends and acquaintances; but I shall not betray them, 
remembering how well-bred the world is. It would be 
a shame to hurt the feelings of ladies and gentlemen of 
respectable position by insinuating that any of their rel- 
atives are here. Let them call their departed ones 
blessed : it will not lessen the torments they endure. 

Shall I venture upon a local description of hell? I 
doubt I shall not be able, but will make the attempt. 

Hell has its own geography, but no one can tell how 
far its realms extend; it is infinite — that mayhems the 
most correct estimate to be given. I believe earth, sun, 
and moon, and all the planets, would not nearly fill it. 
But what foolish talk, there being neither space nor 
time here. And as for boundaries ? — on one side only, 
far, far away, hell has its boundary; whether any one 
ever reached it I cannot tell. 

In the direction of that pale twilight, which decreases 
and increases alternately, there is a great gulf, a fathom- 
less abyss, separating hell from Paradise. It is Par- 
adise whence that radiance proceeds. And from the 
abyss, at regular intervals apparently, dead darkness 
gushes forth, repressing the faint far-off light of heaven, 
till the last ghostly glimmer is gone. Then it is night 
with us, the abyss appearing as a lake of molten fire, but 
its flames are void of light-giving power. That is Sa- 
tan’s residence, and the abode of damned souls. I 
speak of it with fear and trembling. Gradually the 
abyss, as it were, eats up its own darkness, the fair light 
reappearing and growing, till we see it as a tender radi- 
ance, clear as the twilight of a summer morn. And at 



THERE IS A GREAT GULF, A FATHOMLESS ABYSS 









*;>■ ■■'■' ,'-.''iW’ •-- ■■/’i^‘*'‘xv. • -'''• '■ 

•" :,t^r 


•‘7 . ■•- '^k5>»”V 7 - 1 I • 7 ■ A* 



:? • WWir. 

P '^ y .. 

• 4. »*•' UV»." 


k\rM ^ . r - .> 1 ^ ^ 



aCtr V 'mk; "C5w • 2 ' »- 1^? d WC* ^*l.%Mtd 

1*^ • • nt7i jlT' vJFtS >- 

'Vy' bJ ri*> . 'r- 5*. ji 







V 57 


k s 


if..* .-*1 . 


- 7 : 


FROM A LOST SOUL 57 

times, as though a curtain of mist and cloud were sud- 
denly rent asunder, a cataract of light bursts forth vic- 
toriously, overflowing from the heart of glory. Hell 
stands dazzled, struck to the core as it were. For in 
beauty and bliss eternal a vision of Paradise is given to 
the damned ones — no, not the damned ones, for though 
cast into hell we are not yet judged ; it is given to those 
who, like the rich man, lift up their eyes in torment. 
And it is not only Paradise we see, but the blessed ones 
who dwell there. 

All this I have learned, — as yet I have not seen it. 
But now, since dawn is increasing, we seem to be near- 
ing that hour, — shall I say that happy hour? ah no — 
most dread! most dread! I cannot tell how long the 
light goes on increasing or decreasing ; there is no judg- 
ing of the length of dawn, as there is no judging of the 
duration of night itself. According to human ideas, 
it would seem to be a space of several years. The 
vision of Paradise, I feel sure, fills but a moment, but 
some call it long, fearfully long. Shall I rejoice to see 
that moment, or must I dread it? 

Again, hell has a river, the waters of which are heavy, 
dark and muddy. You will be thinking of the waters 
of Lethe. Ah no, my friend, there is no Lethe here 
whence souls might draw forgetfulness : that is a happy 
myth; but the river I speak of is real, terribly real. It 
is fed by the falsehood and injustice of the world; every 
lie, every wrong, helps to swell it. That is why its 
waters are so turbid, so fearfully foul, looking like 
clotted blood at times. And sometimes, when the world 
is more wicked than usual, the river rises and floods its 
banks, leaving stench and pestilence behind it. It is 
scarcely to be endured. But we, hardened spectres of 
hell,, we endure. 


A MESSAGE 


58 

Sometimes, I am told, it rains here and snows, but 
not so often as one would think. It happens when 
folly and vanity upon earth overflow their measure. 
The world can stand a good deal, we know, but there 
are times when even the world has too much of it. 
The surplus then will drop into hell, and we say, by way 
of former fashion of speech: Look, it rains; or. Behold 
it snows ! 

There is in hell not only a certain natural succession 
of time, but also something of social and political order. 
Families herd together, the souls of one and the same 
century like to congregate. And there is a kind of pro- 
gressive development. The most recent arrivals, as a 
rule, take the lowest place, advancing to make room for 
fresh troops appearing. Those who in the world were 
of one way of thinking, or alike In manner of acting, 
soon meet here, though of different nationality or sepa- 
rate centuries. Thus there Is here a town of Injustice, 
called also the town of politicians; there Is a town of the 
Holy Inquisition; a gigantic city of Jews, of Mormons; 
a town of Antediluvians, and many others. 

I begin to understand the moving-springs of hell. It 
Is insatiate desire on the one hand, and remorse on the 
other — I had almost said sorrow ; but that Is too sweet 
a grace, admitting of sorrow for sin, for opportunity 
wasted, and that Is unknown here; It Is a dull flinty grief, 
a mere wailing for pain. The punishment of hell is 
twofold, but after all it Is the self-same retribution. 
Some are driven continuously to brood over the same 
evil passions they Indulged In on earth, satisfaction alone 
being absent; or with horror and loathing are obliged 
again and again to commit In the spirit the self-same 
crimes they polluted their days In the flesh. The miser 
forever Is dreaming of riches, the voluptuary of unclean- 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


59 

ness, the glutton of feasting, the murderer of his bloody 
deed. Others, on the contrary, are pursuing the very 
things they neglected on earth ; they know it is hopeless, 
but pursue them they must. Thus men of unjust deal- 
ing are anxiously trying to right the wrong, the un- 
merciful to do deeds of charity, the unnatural parent to 
live for her children, the suicide to prolong his days. 

But whatever we suffer, our torment is not to be 
viewed in the light of final punishment — that is coming 
— we await the day of doom; no, it is merely the nat- 
ural consequence of our life on earth. Oh, men and 
women, yet walking on earth, consider this ! that all sin, 
great or small, has its own irretrievable consequence, 
which — ay, think of it — extends far beyond the limits 
of life, even into hell. And if mere consequence may 
be so terrible, what must be the punishment to come? 

This then is the law of hell : we are not tormented — 
we torment ourselves! Yet remember that in dying 
everything depends on whether we lived in the faith of 
the Son of God, who gave His life that men might be 
I saved. Our sins have that dread importance in as far 
as they testify that we did not believe. Do you marvel 
1 that I speak of God? Ah me. He is still our God! 
And we know that there is a Son of God who came into 
the world to save sinners, who loved them unto death, 

, even the death of the Cross. But we know nothing of 
the way of salvation : everything is forgotten — the very 
name of the Saviour. We consume ourselves in terri- 
ble efforts to remember, were it but the faintest rem- 
! nant of saving knowledge, but alas it is vain — not even 
j His name ! Could we remember that name, call it back 
to our hearts, I doubt not — I doubt not — even we 
I might be saved. But it is gone — it is too late ! too 


6o 


A MESSAGE 


It is incredible how much I have forgotten; indeed, 
I might say I have forgotten everything except myself. 
Yes, that is it. I have not forgotten self; on the con- 
trary, whatever of the past concerns my person and my 
life has followed me hither with a minuteness of detail 
as strange as it is painful. But the clothes of self, as it 
were, — the things I once possessed by knowledge, by 
intellectual acquirement, — they have vanished together 
with the gifts of mammon and the vanities of the flesh. 
You will not be surprised then that the feeling of naked- 
ness is so terribly present with me. 

I have brought nothing hither but myself. And what 
comprises this self but a burning remorse which can 
never be stilled; a greed of desire which can never be 
satisfied; an unquenchable longing for things left be- 
hind; innumerable recollections of sins great and small, 
causing insufferable anguish, all being equally bitter, 
equally fraught with vainest regret! This is the pic- 
ture of myself, O God, — of myself in hell. 


LETTER IV. 


The circumstances in which I grew up in the world 
could not be called happy. My parents were so unlike 
in character and so little suited to each other that peo- 
ple were fully justified in wondering how they could 
have married at all. My father was a plain homely 
man, somewhat retiring and unassuming; he was the 
head of a well-to-do house of business of considerable 
mercantile importance. But he was not at first sight 
credited with personal weight or influence; people would 
easily slight him. And yet there was that in the quiet 
expression of his face, in the calm clearness of his eye, 
which convinced those who took the trouble of knowing 
him that he was not a man of the ordinary type. 

My mother, whom I always considered the chief per- 
son in the house, was a woman of rare perfections, very 
handsome, very gracious, and highly esteemed. Age 
even flattered her, dealing kindly by her beauty; but 
that, perhaps, was due to the fact that her life never 
flowed in the channels of violent passion. Some be- 
lieved her cold and wanting in feeling; but it would be 
a great mistake to imagine her without the warmth of 
energy. She was a clever woman, and although she 
never asserted herself so as to give offense, she always 
managed to have her way. Who, indeed, could have 
dreamt to turn her will aside, since I, her idol and her 
darling never once succeeded in going against it? She 
was a remarkably clever woman. 

The world admired her; whether she was loved I 
cannot say. Maybe she loved none excepting myself. 

6i 


62 


A MESSAGE 


Did I love her? Well, if I must answer the question 
honestly, I am bound to say I also rather admired than 
loved her. And, indeed, she was worthy of all admir- 
ation. Never anywhere did I meet a woman who was 
so thoroughly what the world calls a lady — mind you, 
I mean a lady in the world’s own acceptation. She was 
just 'perfect — perfect in beauty, in manner, in bearing, 
in dress, in all the ways of life prescribed by society; 
perfect too in the fullfilment of what she considered her 
duty, irreproachable in conduct, a very pattern of piety, 
appearing clothed in spotlessness as with a garment; 
never saying or doing or permitting anything that might 
breath suspicion on her perfection. In short, she was a 
lady to the least movement of her finger, to the mi- 
nutest folds of her dress. And she preserved her rep- 
utation, even adding to it daily. 

Looking back now, I understand her — as indeed I 
understand the whole of the sad past — with a new in- 
sight. I see plainly now that to her the world wa§ 
everything : it was her guide, its approval being the aim 
of her every ambition. I do not mean to say by this 
that she cared not for things good and beautiful in any 
other light, and she really cultivated religion. No one 
could appear more assiduously obedient to the behests 
of piety than my mother, with her veneration for the 
clergy, her regular attendance at church; and no one 
ever quitted her presence without feeling edified. Not 
undeservedly might duty and propriety be termed the 
guardian saints that watched her every step. 

The stately mansion we inhabited was divided in two, 
figuratively speaking, my mother presiding in one way 
— my father, though quietly, in another; I, their child, 
seemed to belong altogether to my mother’s dominion. 
I shrank from my father, feeling afraid of his quiet eye. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 63 

Apparently he was satisfied with this state of affairs, but 
I feel sure now that in his heart he loved me. 

My mother’s rule was marked by gaiety; she loved to 
live in style. My father, excused by business, but 
rarely took part in her doings; and if he made his ap- 
pearance at times, I, foolish child, felt almost ashamed 
of his presence, — he looked so little like the master of 
the house in the simplicity of his habits and unpretend- 
ing ways. 

There was another inmate of our house, my father’s 
sister, strangely contrasting with my mother. The 
world had begun to call her an old maid; and she cer- 
tainly was peculiar, a mixture of unfashionableness and 
singularity. People called her eccentric, whimsical; and 
indeed one never knew what she might not be doing 
next. She was no “ lady ” like my mother, and nowise 
perfect, though she could look remarkably ladylike 
whenever she thought it worth while. She was ex- 
tremely natural, her heart always bubbling over with 
its inmost thoughts; there was something utterly naive 
in her straightforward openness and the unstudied ways 
of her conversation. My mother, I believe, thought 
her queer; but in truth she was the only person who ever 
knew how to call up a smile in my father’s face. And 
this she looked upon as her own special vocation, ever 
mindful of it. No ; Aunt Betty could nowise be held up 
as a pattern; and as for perfections, she had but one — 
a heart brimful of kindness, ever ready to sacrifice itself, 
making it her one delight to see others happy. In fact 
she never thought of herself. And that heart of hers 
was filled with a faith as deep and fervent and single- 
minded as any child’s. No doubt her Christian life 
knew its times of dearth as of plenty — it could not be 
otherwise with a nature like hers — but her heart, never- 


A MESSAGE 


64 

theless, was firmly grounded. She had God in her 
heart. And though she might get entangled with her 
duties, and even blunder about God’s commandments, 
the one commandment, fulfilling the law, ever shone as 
a beacon to her soul that, loving God, we should love 
one another. 

She had hardly ever been separated from my father, 
and now she seemed indispensable in his house — that 
great two-parted house. If I were to call her our Cin- 
derella, it would most certainly be an ill-chosen compar- 
ison, and yet a true one. She was queen of the house- 
hold; but in that position she managed to be the servant 
of all. Every trouble, every care, she took upon her 
shoulders, wearing herself out for each and all of us. 
She liked it. Any attempt to oppose her in this respect 
roused her self-assertion, meek and mild though she was 
in aught beside. My mother, being the lady, never 
touched domestic concerns with a finger ; everything was 
given up to Aunt Betty, even the care for myself and 
my father. But household worries were the least of her 
vicarious burden; she felt called to take upon herself 
whatever was disagreeable to any one else, making her- 
self a shield and warder-off in every possible direction, 
and being the willing scapegoat even, if thereby she 
could comfort blundering servant or careless child. She 
appeared to consider that her life’s calling, — she who, 
despite her simplicity, was by far the wisest of us, — and 
indefatigable were her attempts to cover the want of 
harmony between my parents. She might in truth be 
called the bond of union between them. It was evi- 
dently my father for whom she thus sacrificed herself, 
loving him with a sisterly devotion as beautiful as rare. 
How well she understood how to brighten his home, to 
turn aside the edge of disappointment, and flood the 


FROM A LOST SOUL 65 

place with her own abundant warmth. Was he sad, — 
how she would cheer him, and with a show of gaiety, 
hiding perhaps her own aching heart, strive to heal the 
breach that separated him from his wife, and, alas! 
from his child as well. 

And how lovingly she did her very best for me, — 
the sweetest, kindest of aunts I My mother indulged me 
fondly; I ought not to say that she spoiled me, — her 
cleverness stood in the way of that; but I owe it to my 
aunt that, in spite of all indulgence, I was a good and 
even pious child. It was she who taught me to read my 
Bible, sowing the good seed in my heart, and nothing in 
after life ever did more for me than her loving and 
God-fearing example. The recollection of that early 
time is unspeakably sweet to me even now in the bitter- 
ness of hell. With what power of love she drew me 
is plainly evident from the fact that whenever I could 
I stole away from the queenly presence of my mother — 
though there was never a plaything I wished for but 
she gave it me — to seek Aunt Betty, trotting behind 
her to kitchen and storeroom, or spending hours in the 
one little chamber she called her own. That was the 
happiest time of my life. 

Thanks to Aunt Betty, then, I was brought up in the 
fear of God; but though the seed was sown, and the 
flower even blossomed, it never yielded fruit. As I 
grew up, the power of the sensual was upon me, and I 
early conformed to the ways of the world. Aunt Betty 
died ; she had positively worn herself to death. At such 
cost the service of love at times is given. Her loss 
moved me deeply, but the impression did not last. I had 
begun to attend at my father’s counting-house. My 
mother had destined me for the army, or, if possible, 
to some diplomatic career. I was gifted with my 


66 


A MESSAGE 

mother’s beauty, was heir to my father’s fortune, and 
not wanting in ability. She took pride in me, and nat- 
urally wished I should be a credit to her in the eyes of 
the world. But although apart from Aunt Betty I had 
always been left to my mother’s guidance, my father 
strenuously opposed her wishes in this respect; I should 
follow in his footsteps and carr}^ on the time-honored 
firm. Life, he said, would yield its own battles apart 
from the army. He was right, but a sorry soldier I 
proved. 

I was gifted with the pleasant but dangerous talent 
of making friends wherever I went — a pernicious talent 
even, with a disposition like mine. Not only did the 
world open her arms to receive me, but to clasp me, as 
the fair nymphs of the well clasped Hylas, the beautiful 
youth, dragging him helplessly to the deep. Even be- 
fore my lips wore the first downy sign of manhood, I 
was already corrupted. Of misleading companions 
there was no lack, those of my own sex not being the 
worst. Such things, however, avenge themselves: be- 
ing mislead at first, I began to mislead. 

But being brought under my father’s immediate in- 
fluence, he did his utmost to lift me from the slough, 
sparing neither admonition, nor rebuke, nor even re- 
straint. It availed not; I evaded his guidance, and even 
deceived him. More successful were my mother’s at- 
tempts ; for while, on the one hand, she managed to let 
me see that she could condone if not actually excuse, she 
yet so powerfully pleaded the claims of prudence and 
position that I promised to mend my ways. And I did 
mend them. I carefully considered the extreme of dis- 
sipation, avoiding discovery and scandal. 

Self-restraint was not without effort, for my nature 
thirsted after pleasure. But though passion-ruled, I 


FROM A LOST SOUL 67 

had a strong will to act as a curb where I chose, and the 
worldly wisdom of my mother taught me the advisa- 
bility of exerting that will. 

I was about one-and-twenty when my father died; 
never since we lost Aunt Betty, can I remember having 
seen a smile on his face — there was no one to call it 
up when she had gone. And now he left us. My 
mother retired on her jointure — satisfied, as she said, 
to have done her duty in the world. And I, at an early 
age, was admitted to a partnership in the firm, of which 
my father’s brother now was head. Soon after I fell 
seriously ill. 

This brings me to one of the darkest episodes of my 
life. It is but an epsiode, a draught of passing enjoy- 
ment, but fraught with the origin of my deepest woe. 
Could I washed of all my sin, this one dark recollection 
would never leave me. 

The illness happily had been got over, leaving me 
prostrate. It was early in the spring. My medical at- 
tendant advised me to leave town as soon as possible 
for the country or the seaside. But I was a prey to 
ill-humor and fretfulness. I liked the advice, and did 
not like it. I did not care for our own place in the 
country; it was not quiet enough, I said, and I hated 
the sea. As it chanced a sudden whim came to the 
rescue. We had been to the lakes the previous autumn ; 
memory carried me back to a keeper’s lodge, delightfully 
situated in a leafy solitude, a very bower of clematis 
and roses. Peace herself could not dream of a more 
congenial retreat. If I was to go for change of air 
that was the place I should fancy. 

Difficulties were got over, and I went. An honest 
old keeper lived there with his daughter Annie, she be- 
ing on the verge of womanhood. Annie ! — how little 



68 'A MESSAGE 

did I think that this name one day would sound so 
terrible to my ears. 

I recovered quickly and strength returned. But 
lovely as the spot was, life without incident did not 
amuse me. From sheer ennui I began to make love 
to Annie. She was an inexperienced country-girl; but 
the very naivete of her ignorance was enchanting. She 
was as free and natural as the birds of the dell, a very 
outcome of her surroundings, fresh as the dewy morn 
and fragrant as the woodland air. Wild and untaught, 
yet sweetly delicate, that child of nature soon cast a 
spell over my fancy. We were left alone fearlessly. 
Her father saw but a child in her — she was barely 
seventeen — and she was engaged to wait on me. 

But Annie, at first, was proof to flattery; light-footed 
and light-hearted, she turned its edge unconsciously, and 
I made no way with her. Always merry and always 
happy, full of kindliness and grace, she flitted about 
me, helpful as an angel, but coy and unapproachable. 
Not that she saw danger — she did not even suspect it; 
it was merely the instinctive dread holding all chil- 
dren of nature aloof from snares. The bird on the 
sunny bough will look at you, even sing to you, but you 
shall not touch it. Brimming with life’s enjoyment she 
was easily delighted, and sprightly as a squirrel in the 
wood. She knew affection, but what we call love had 
at that time not entered her consciousness. Never had 
I seen a happier mind, a fresher or more charming 
disposition; the sky of her soul was as clear as the blue 
vault above, her singing as blithe as the lark’s on the 
wing, and she cared not whether the sun shone or not. 

But in my selfish soul I said, “ Thou coy little bird, 
see if I don’t catch thee! ” Not that I loved her — 
the difference of rank was too great; but I was for 


FROM A LOST SOUL 69 

plucking the flower, though I should throw it away after 
a while. 

Later, however, repentance with poignant sting seized 
upon my heart — there was some good left in me as 
yet; I felt deeply touched, moreover, by the child’s 
entire love and humble surrender. Was she bewitch- 
ing before, she was not less so now. 

I began to love her, or to believe I loved her, and 
thought of a possible marriage. 

But it fell out differently. My mother had been 
informed, and set herself to bring me to reason. How 
cleverly she did it ! — not rousing opposition, but none 
the less effectively showing me the utter foolishness of 
my intention. There was not a shade of derision in her 
manner, yet I felt ridiculed. She never called it a silly 
freak, but she brought me to view it as such. Had I 
really loved Annie, no doubt my mother could not so 
easily have influenced me. As it was, I suddenly seemed 
to come to my senses ; it was not love — only pity for 
the girl. 

My mother spoke about it freely; and presently she 
succeeded in directing my attention elsewhere. She had 
adopted an orphan child, of American parentage dis- 
tantly related to her own family. Lily might be about 
nine or ten years old now, and so far I had scarcely 
bestowed any notice upon her. My mother would hint 
now and then at the rare flower of beauty slumbering 
in the buds of promise. And presently, in so many 
words, she pointed out to me that in some seven or 
eight years Lily might not only have ripened to match- 
less charms, but as an heiress of no ordinary kind could 
not fail to draw the eyes of men. If then, I would 
give up Annie, and think of Lily instead, she would 
try to keep her for me. When Lily should have 


70 MESSAGE 

reached maturity, it would be just about the right time 
for me to settle in life, and I might hunt the world 
over, and not find her equal anywhere. That was true 
enough, and imagination had been set to work. Since 
that time I loved to think of the promising little Creole. 

Lily was undeniably a lovely creature, as harmless 
as a dove, but with me anticipating fancy revelled in 
possession. It was easy for my mother therefore to win 
me to her plan. There was something Indescribably 
charming In this new relationship. To look upon Lily 
as my own property, though she knew it not ; to watch 
her unfolding charm upon charm in sweetest innocence ; 
to call her mine — mine in the very care that guarded 
her; to gather up treasure, as it were, for my own 
delightful harvest. 

I allowed my mother full liberty to bring the affair 
with Annie to a satisfactory end, as she termed it, hav- 
ing given her my word not to see the girl again. A 
real sacrifice, was it not ? Hell shows it now In its own 
true light. 


LETTER V. 


I BEGIN to feel at home here. At home? How full 
of sweetest echoes in this word. Its very sound would 
warm one’s heart on earth; it is bitter here — doubly 
bitter for memories gone. It does not lessen hell to 
get used to it ; we are even forced to make ourselves at 
home here, just as we are obliged to be what once we 
were. 

That irresistible impulse to be continuously doing 
the works of our earthly life, to pursue with a burning 
greed a vain and shadowy existence, may well be termed 
hell’s daily bread. The evil desire alone is real: the 
sense that might lend it expression is dead. You have 
heard of Tantalus and Sisyphus — it may help you to 
conceive our state. All is illusion here, the very fire I 
told you of, raging in imagination merely — within us 
that is — and yet what an awful reality ! 

You understand, then, that I have resumed old habits, 
not willingly, but under compulsion, following the old 
bent with a helpless disgust. However, I cannot but 
add that I have been tolerably fortunate, falling on 
my feet in society, as it were, and a very nice set I have 
joined. I have been lucky in renewing many an old 
acquaintance, and have made friends with people whom 
one would have been glad to know on earth. You 
would be indeed surprised if I were indiscreet enough 
to mention names! But I shall content myself with 
generalizing. It is strange how many of the so-called 
respectable people one meets here; in fact, they form 
the nucleus of society in hell as they do on earth. I 

71 


A MESSAGE 


72 

might even say good people, meaning those worthy 
folk whose one desire it is to go through life com- 
fortably, quite willing no one else should hunger, pro- 
vided they themselves have all they need ; satisfied with 
their lot in the world, not perhaps a grand one, and 
caring for nothing beyond it — never dreaming that the 
less fortunate might be their brothers and sisters after 
all. Just look about you wherever you please — the 
world is full of such. They are good to themselves 
and good to their children, thanking God for the means 
of being so. They spend their years as if this life’s 
business were all that needs to be thought of, living 
for their families, their home concerns, whether in 
drudgery or in ease, both men and women. You little 
think that daily life, with its legitimate cares, — ay, even 
what you call your duty by house and home, — may 
be the snare to bring your soul to hell ! There are men 
who rush through life in the whirl of amusement; others 
sleep through it; others again wear themselves out for 
its paltry amenities, calling that to live forsooth ! And 
before they are aware of it, their race is run, they close 
their eyes to open them again, surprised perhaps, in the 
pangs of hell. 

Oh could I live over again but a single year of my 
earthly span — I do not mean for my own sake merely ! 
— I might perhaps be able to warn some few of those 
excellent men whose ideas of life are wrapped up in 
the counting-house on the one hand, and in the pros- 
perity of their family on the other — of those devoted 
wives and mothers who spend themselves for the com- 
forts of home. I say some few of them, well knowing 
that not many would believe me. 

Nay, even as regards so-called philanthropists I have 
made the unexpected discovery that some of them — 


FROM A LOST SOUL 73 

I say some — who have really one way or another bene- 
fited thousands, have lived to their own ruin. Has the 
world been loud in their praises? — learn wisdom, my 
friend, and overrate not the world’s approval. 

It is, indeed, a strange fancy, prevalent among men, 
that only the wicked go to hell. You poor deluded 
ones, listen to my words: it is incredible, I assure you, 
how little is needed to take a man to hell — that is to 
say, if he dies without having found his Savior. For 
without Him the soul is unable to bear the smallest 
weight of wrong; while with Him — yes, with Him — 
she will wing herself to heaven in the face of moun- 
tains of sin. Do you know that Savior? I ask you as 
one who can never know Him now ! 

There are many here, I assure you, who have never 
committed any particular crime. The world, with its 
notions of right and wrong, would cry out for justice 
if it were but known ! And why are they here ? They 
never felt the sting of conscience, leading respectable 
lives, laying the unction of goodness to their souls, — 
but they died and went to hell. No demon of evil 
ruled their lives, and yet they are here — oh heaven, 
where is thy justice? — in a like damnation with our- 
selves! The torment of hell for such people consists 
in having nothing to do here, no counting-house to 
attend, no families to provide for. Not ruled by pas- 
sion, they are slaves to life’s habit, and the latter may 
be as terrible a taskmaster as the former. 

Thus much is certain, if having nothing to live for 
could kill people, and if one could die in hell, many 
here would die of sheer hankering after their earthly 
drudgery. 

My own existence, once I was properly introduced, 
was speedily filled with amusement. Are you surprised 


A MESSAGE 


74 

that I should say “ introduced? ” But we are no Goths 
here, and society with us also attends to its rules. If it 
needs little to bring one to hell, it is not so easy to make 
r one’s way into the fashionable circles of this place of 
woe. It is with us just as with you, with this difference 
only: the world asks who a man is, the question here 
being who he was. 

Now I, in the world, was allowed to be handsome 
and refined, a man who could pride himself on his 
gentlemanly qualities, not to mention a considerable for- 
tune. Here I no longer am this man, but I affect his 
semblance. Yet I must warn you against imagining 
that there is any pretence; no, it is nature, downright 
nature. 

At first I was positively overwhelmed with calls and 
invitations. Here also novelty is much sought after. 
If I had brought nothing with me but the news of some 
foolish fashion lately adopted in the world, I should 
have been considered an acquisition. But, without flat- 
tering myself, I may say I brought more — a fashion- 
able finish of the most faultless description having ever 
been the very essence of my aims. Shall I tell you of 
a merry club-dinner to which I was asked lately ? The 
party assembled was of doubtful reputation — high liv- 
ing, drink, and gluttony seemed their watchword; nor 
was it complimentary to my antecedents to be invited, 
for with me the beautiful maxim, “ moderation in all 
things,” had ever covered a multitude of sins, and I 
had always been careful to avoid vulgarity. However, 
there I was; the fare was exquisite, the wine splendid. 
A jovial company they appeared, to judge from the 
loose jokes and ribald anecdotes passing between the 
pleasures of the table. And what shall I say of the 
temptations born of surfeit, coursing through the heated 



% 


HAVING NOTHING TO DO 

















<■ '■ /r!®"-f? 


A': -• v- i^!■^»s^.U:^ 





>:Vr 



> *i 




» i . 




?• 


#r; 





,-T 




, f - , ./.-i ■ - -r 

* • - • 


r 



■II 




b ’-v ' * 

;w 

tfV' 

^ A 

‘i;' 

, ,-rr . . 

ft 

r. 




- o J") %• 


' % r > V . 







’^'rT^v'r ; 


r 

^T'- 

.n 






4 f ' «* I 







. lyfev-' 






’«A I ^ 

r '^.‘ • * ' 

‘ 5 *' I - ^ •!,^*ii- 

iTv^sj * .Vrf"* LT V’ '* ^ 

'■ ■ • Ik . n ' 1^ 

* * V\ V v A iPW 


V 


•T » 


, 4 


• « 




t 

■* ^ 

aQ 

; - K 

- 


* » F 

• 


" *1 


1 > 

• 

-hjk 

.:»1 

. . 

1 


’ 





7* te / 



/ ' 



6)1 




FROM A LOST SOUL 77 

veins? Ah, they were not wanting, but satisfaction 
was an illusion. I refrain — there was nothing real in 
all that banquet save its incitement to sin; we preyed 
on our miserable selves, eating and drinking leaving a 
nauseating feeling of emptiness, the very jokes being 
unbearably stale. Men of all kinds are found here, but 
vainly you look for one capable of producing anything 
to refresh the mind by genuine mirth or novelty. How- 
ever, eat and drink we must, and laugh and joke we 
must; we were obliged, I mean, whether we liked it or 
not. Now you understand perhaps, though faintly, 
what it means to join in festivity in hell. 

At that club-dinner, where nothing was wanting 
that gluttony could dream of, the thought of some 
poor man on earth eating his crust in the sweat of his 
brow again and again presented itself to my mind. The 
dry bread that satisfies his hunger, the beer or tea that 
quenches his thirst, what a royal feast is his as compared 
with ourselves. For he does eat, and is satisfied, but 
we — oh vainest deception ! 

Was it not that excellent hero, Achilles, who, in 
occupy any favored position here, be it of king or 
most miserable man on earth than king of the realm 
below? This is but wisdom of the Greeks, but how 
true ! — how true ! I too would far rather spend my 
days upon earth amid the most overwhelming diffi- 
culties, battling with care, want, or suffering, than 
occupy any favoured position here, be it of king or 
epicure. Of all the fools of the world’s training he, 
surely, is greatest who takes away his own life, thinking 
that he could never be worse off than he is. In sooth, 
whatever a man’s earthly lot may be, be sure it may 
be a paradise to what he goes to meet. He may find 
himself yearning for the misery he quitted; indeed, if 


78 A MESSAGE 

you could give him back that misery tenfold, he would 
seize it eagerly and bless you for the gift. 

Still the number of actual suicides, comparatively 
speaking, is small; a far larger class of men content 
themselves with shortening their days by continuous 
grumblings and a dismal unsatisfied frame of mind. 
If shortening their days were but all, and if thereby 
they did at least better themselves for the time being! 
But the fact is, they all but kill life with discontent. 
They are dissatisfied with themselves, with their fellows, 
with all the world, with the very air which they breathe 
and the day which is given them. Poor fools, the day is 
short and night is at hand! And why are they dis- 
satisfied? Because health is not all it should be, or the 
world at times crosses them; because their position in 
life but imperfectly suits their nature and liking, and 
they would desire a better lot; because perhaps their 
battle is harder than other people’s, or, at worst, their 
whole life a failure falling short of dearest hope? 

I do not mean to underrate these things — on the 
contrary, I do own that life to most men is fraught 
with sorrow; but I say this: Could you but view 
matters from the vantage-ground of hell, you who 
lessen life by discontent, you would gain that much 
of wisdom, that our days on earth, whatever of trouble, 
of care and vexation, be bound up with them, are yet 
capable of yielding very real happiness. So much de- 
pends on how we take things. If, instead of fixing 
upon trouble as something foreign to yourselves or hos- 
tile to your being, looking, upon yourselves as miserable 
in consequence, you could but open your soul to that 
trouble and, rising from inertness, accept it as a very 
part of your existence, how different things would ap- 
pear! Many a trouble, moreover, is but imaginary. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 79 

and If dealt with sensibly would dwindle away; while 
many a real trouble, on the other hand, by your striving 
to take It aright, might become an imjDulse of new en- 
deavor, changing the very face of your life and leading 
you to a better happiness than before you aimed at. 
Ah, indeed, if you could but view matters from hell you 
would come to see that man is able to bear a load of 
trouble, and that, confronting want and misery, he 
may yet attain a state of happiness worth the having! 
You would find that every day of that life which now 
you make a burden to yourselves and to others is 
precious beyond words, a gracious gift of God for which 
you cannot be grateful enough. You would understand 
that I, hungering and longing, would wish to be in your 
place — ay, and count myself blessed to bear the burden 
which you consider so grievous. But what boots it 
that I see It all so plainly now ; It Is too late for me, — 
too late. 

That fashionable people In hell have their so-called 
grand evening parties will hardly surprise you ; we have 
dances, “ at homes,” and all those things set store by 
in the world. But if this sort of stylish living even on 
earth is unutterably hollow, what must It be here where 
the very air we breathe Is vanity and nothingness? 
Looking back I can scarcely credit now how I could 
wrong my better self for the sake of that vile habit 
of attending parties. What Is a party In the very 
society which calls Itself polite? Is It not as If some 
vicious goblin had a hand In It, bringing together 
twenty, fifty, even a hundred people, each of whom has 
his own cosy fireside — men and women who for the 
most part have little or nothing In common, but needs 
must meet beneath staring chandeliers, the spirit of 
falsehood among them? Vanity rules, and v/hen the 


8o 


A MESSAGE 


goblin has thoroughly fooled them and lights turn pale, 
they each go home faged and tattered. Host and 
hostess say, “ What a mercy it’s over! ” Each visitor 
says, ‘ I am thankful to go to bed — are you, poor 
fools of fashion? 

But if it seems a marvel now how I also, in days 
gone by, could sacrifice myself to the so-called claims 
of society, I need not marvel that I do so here. It 
was hy choice then, — it is under compulsion now ; it 
is as if ten thousand goblins fooled ue — we know it 
but cannot withstand. 

The object of parties with us is just the same as 
with you : to be seen, to be admired, to make one- 
self agreeable — not so much in order to please your 
neighbour as to be thought pleasant yourself — and 
to hide it amiably if you think people a bore. There 
is one marked difference, however, placing us often 
in a position both painful and ridiculous. What should 
you say if at any of your great social gatherings you 
could look through people’s clothes — those fine clothes 
put on so carefully — through them, I say, to the very 
piece of humanity they hide, and not only through them, 
but deeper still, to the core of the heart beneath ? It is 
so here! Supposing, then, you walk up to some old 
crone, saying, with your most engaging smile — “ De- 
lighted to see you ! ” thinking to yourself at the same 
time — “I wish she were at Jericho ! ’’^ — I leave you 
to imagine the figure you cut. I give this as an example 
only — as a clew, rather ; think it out further and see 
where it leaves you ! But even to this one gets used 
in hell, fortifying oneself with a kind of frivolous im- 
pudence, without which intercourse would be simply 
unbearable. The incident I quoted of course leaves 
the advantage with the old crone; but the moment she 


FROM A LOST SOUL 8i 

opens her lips her interlocutor has the best of it, for he 
can see through her clothes as she saw through his. 
They are quits then. 

However, as I said, it is not merely ludicrous but 
painful — offering, moreover, an unsurmountable ob- 
stacle to all courtship. It is utterly impossible here 
to fool a woman, be she ever so frail. All the fine 
words of hell cannot delude her, for she sees through 
them. From this point of view we form a most 
virtuous company. Indeed, flattery and compliments 
with us are exceedingly difficult to pass, the heart be- 
traying the man in quite another sense than with you. 

You can hardly picture to yourself how much of the 
truly surprising, if* not interesting, may be experienced 
here in a single day. The world, as seen from hell, is 
the land of dreams and imaginings, appearing beautiful 
and pleasant none the less. And, absurdly paradoxical 
as it may sound here only, where all reality has van- 
ished, reality in uncompromising nakedness is upon us. 
Are they friends or foes that meet, they soon speak 
the truth to one another. Such mutual confessions, on 
the whole, are little edifying, and, since there are no 
secrets here, at once flit from circle to circle for general 
merriment. Do you care to have examples ? Here arc 
some recent tit-bits. 

A. had been killed in a duel which he fought to 
avenge an insult offered to his handsome young wife. 
Quite recently he somewhat unexpectedly met his late 
opponent, who, having gone the way of all flesh, had 
come to hell. Wrathfully he taxed him with former 
wrong, but the latter made answer quijte coolly : 

“ Silly man, do you mean to fight me again for noth- 
ing whatever? Let bygones be bygones; we had better 
be friends.” 


82 


A MESSAGE 

“For nothing whatever!” reiterated A., hotly. 
“ Do you call it nothing that you insulted my wife, 
and killed me, moreover, when I tried to vindicate 
her? ” 

“ I suppose I must tell you the plain fact,” replied 
his opponent. “ I see you still labor under a delusion. 
The matter was simply this: I had been the lover of 
your wife, but broke with her. That was the insult. 
That is why she got you to challenge me. However, 
these are bygones; we’ll be friends now.” 

Whether they were friends after that I cannot tell. 
I rather think that A. felt ready to hide himself. 

Two friends — in fact they were cousins — sat to- 
gether in pleasant intercourse. Said the one : 

“ To tell the truth, I was born to be a poet. I did 
write novels, and my first publications made quite a sen- 
sation.” 

“ Don’t I know that,” says the cousin, “ since it was 
I who wrote half the reviews about them? It was I, 
sweet coz, who brought you into fashion. That is eas- 
ily managed, if one has a few connections and sufficient 
wit to let the review be racy; people are easily caught.” 

“What — you? Surely you are but joking 1 Why, 
I owe you everlasting thanks.’ 

“ Thanks — - no,” replied the cousin. “ Did we not 
love one another as very brothers? ” 

The would-be poet grew thoughtful, continuing after 
a while: 

“ But it was short-lived fame. I had jumped into 
fashion with one leap, as it were, and a great future 
seemed to await me, when, as by magic, there was a 
change which I never understood. Reviews from 
panegyrics turned to spite, cutting me up so mercilessly 
that no publisher presently had courage to launch my 


FROM A LOST SOUL 83 

works, and I was constrained to turn my back upon the 
literary career.” 

“ Well, I can solve that mystery also. It was I who 
cut you up so mercilessly as you say, not leaving you 
the faintest pretence to talent. I had set myself to 
persecute you into silence; as soon as you opened your 
mouth, down came the lash. What could you do but 
turn your back upon literature? ” 

“You — you did that?” 

“To be sure, but don’t excite yourself: it was to 
your own advantage. Your mother, to whom I never 
could say nay, had implored me to leave no stone un- 
turned in trying to save you from what she considered 
your utter ruin. You had no talent for poetry, she said, 
but a very marked calling for the blacking manufactory, 
on which your family had thriven conspicuously. Now 
I knew ■ — of course I did — that your literary fame 
w^as all humbug ; and humbug could not really hold you 
in the saddle, I saw that. A reviewer could fill your 
balloon, but he could not keep it sailing, and with every 
line you wrote the gas escaped woefully; you were as 
near a collapse as possible. So I generously resolved 
to anticipate it, and by main force bring you from poetry 
to blacking. I discharged broadsides of wit and volleys 
of sarcasm whenever you dared to show yourself in 
print, success crowning my efforts; for you died rich 
with the spoils of blacking — a man of worth, too, in 
the eyes of respectable citizens.’ 

“ And went to hell! ” cried the blacking and poesy- 
monger. “ Should I find myself here if my Pegasus 
had not been hamstrung so vilely? ” 

“ That is more than I know,” returned the review- 
ing cousin mildly. “ But I scarcely think that litera- 
ture by itself would have carried you to Paradise, any 


A MESSAGE 


84 

more than I believe that blacking alone had power to 
drag you to hell. But these are bygones. I loved you 
dearly, and was your best friend, after all.” 

The poetical blacking-dealer turned away disgusted. 
The information was more than he could stand. 

A couple of monks were holding low but earnest 
converse. 

“ But tell me, brother,” said the one, “ how you came 
to take the cowl ? ’ 

“Through my own stupidity; it was nothing else. 
I fell in love with Lisella Neri; you knew her, I think. 
She was considered a beauty, and she was an heiress. 
However, I was refused, and, sick of life, I entered the 
monastery, — a piece of folly I rued every day till I 
died. A simple story, is it not? But what brought 
you to the cloister? ” 

“ The vei*y opposite, strange to say. I also loved 
Lisella, and presently was her accepted suitor, but it 
ended in my being the most miserable husband under 
the sun. Lisella was both capricious and bad; and 
she did not care for me. I never knew a moment’s 
peace. There seemed but one way out of misery: leav- 
ing her mistress of her fortune, I fled to the monastery, 
and truly I never repented of it. If ever a moment’s 
discontent assailed me I had but to think of Lisella and 
happiness was restored.” 

The first monk sat buried in silence. Presently he 
said : “ Our experience shows that no one can escape 

his destiny. From what you tell me I gather that 
Lisella, one way or another, must have brought me to 
the cowl. Still you, brother, were the most fortunate 
after all; not because for a time you owned that hand- 
some troubler of peace, but because, knowing her as I 
did not, your disappointment ended in content.” 


FROM A LOST SOUL 85 

But enough of this. What is the use of telling these 
things ? 

Martin, poor Martin, what may have become of 
you? He was wronged after all. Badly brought up, 
badly used, he was my work. 

She was very beautiful that young girl, about his 
own age. She was cleaning the house-steps one day 
when I first saw her. But lowly as her ocupation was, 
she charmed the eye. It was easy for me to offer to 
educate her. She appeared not born to her humble 
sphere. I placed her with a family I knew. 

By what chance he and she met I know not, but their 
first meeting seems to have been sufficient. As in a 
flash of lightning love struck their hearts simultaneously, 
and quickly they knew they were each other’s. 

Martin came to me with an open confession. But 
not only did I refuse consent, — I cruelly taunted him. 
He quitted me in anger to seek his own way. As self- 
willed as myself, he hesitated not a moment as to his 
line of action, carrying off the girl before my very eyes 
so to speak. 

She was nowhere to be found. But he did not hide, 
facing me boldly. It was then that I thrust him from 
my house ; from my heart also I believed — but in this 
' I was mistaken. 

What could he have been wanting to tell me that 
i' would heal every breach between us, as he said in that 
letter? Did it concern him or her? A Higher Power 
j has spoken, he said. I am left to maddening doubt. 

I Doubt? — nay, it is a burning question, consuming 

I my soul with the fire of hell — sufficient almost to draw 
I me back to earth as a wandering ghost. But should 
I find an answer to the question — and where? 


LETTER VI. 


Let me speak to you of Lily. But I fear memory will 
scarcely separate the child Lily from the woman into 
which she blossomed. Remember that I see her with 
the knowledge of a later period. I neither saw nor 
heard her aright. 

She was a Creole. Delicate and lovely were her 
features, though not perhaps molded after any received 
type of beauty; her hair black and glossy; her eyes like 
stars, of so deep a blue that the cursory beholder be- 
lieved them black, and veiled with lashes behind which 
her soul at times would appear to withdraw from your 
gaze as a pure nymph descending into her own limpid 
depth. Her figure was slight and airy, perfectly har- 
monious, not wanting in fullness, but tenderly shaped; 
not tall, with hands and feet of the smallest, and rarely 
beautiful. Such was Lily. But those eyes of hers were 
her greatest charm. Who does not know the soft en- 
chantment of Creole eyes? Lily’s ‘even now have a 
power that penetrates my soul. Never in all eternity 
shall I forget that tender brightness sparkling with tear- 
ful laughter, that gaze half sad and yet so full of prom- 
ise, that at any time it bound my heart. 

The southern temperament is generally accredited 
with caprice and passionate self-will. But nothing was 
more unlike Lily than this. No doubt there was 
warmth in her nature, but its glow was gentle and deep, 
never kindling to passion, but always yielding its own 
beneficent radiance. Capriciousness was utterly foreign 
to her, but she knew her own mind concerning anything 
86 


FROM A LOST SOUL 87 

she considered to be right — anything her conscience 
had recognized as due to truth or charity. In such 
things her will was unbendable, though in aught else 
she was submissiveness itself. Self-love she knew not, 
her soul’s deepest need being surrender. Poor child, 
you could not have been placed more terribly, all but 
given over to one who was an egotist to the core of his 
being. 

She was all heart. Later on some physician discov- 
ered what he called an organic defect — Lily’s heart 
was too large, he said. Nothing more likely than this ! 
I never knew a disposition so prone to feeling, so easily 
touched as hers. She was brimming with affection, love 
being the only reward she claimed. As a child, a loving 
word — a look even — could so move her that she 
would fling herself on your neck whispering her grati- 
tude as she nestled in your embrace. Her sympathy at 
all times was easily roused. The trials and strivings of 
others — their joys and sorrows, their happiness or mis- 
fortune — were all that interested her most. She 
seemed to move in love and pity. 

At times I could not but tell myself how ill-fitted she 
was for a self-seeking world. Her tender nature was 
often hurt in intercourse with others, and, feeling re- 
pulsed, she would shrink back within herself. That is 
why after all she was a lonely child, satisfied to com- 
mune with herself and with me — wretch as I was. 

Added to this, hers was a wonderful simplicity of 
nature — simplicity of spirit I ought to say. I doubt 
not that, had she lived to extreme old age, she would 
never have departed from the heart of a child. Noth- 
ing was more easy than to talk her over to anything, 
provided only it did not clash with her sense of right. 
She never dreamt that anybody could be deceiving her. 


88 


A MESSAGE 


Once or twice I frivolously put her simple-mindedness 
to the test, but felt so humbled by her utter trust that 
I never did it again. Incarnate shamelessness would 
have bowed to her holy innocence. She was one of 
those beautiful beings one meets with but rarely in life, 
who, walking on earth, keep their skirts pure, no matter 
what defilement be about them. I verily believe you 
might have dragged her through slums of sin and vice, 
and she would have come forth with innocence un- 
harmed. Her soul somehow was above offense, she 
never thought that anybody could be wanting to do 
wrong. Her eyes never opened to the appalling fact 
that it is a wicked world in which men live. She knew 
what sin was, her pious mind having its own childlike 
ideas concerning it; but she never knew vice as, with 
fleeting footstep, she followed her transient course of 
life. 

I should wrong myself if I said that I never saw 
this till now. I felt it even then, corrupt as I was. 
How little there was in common between us — she all 
spirit, I all flesh. Again I say, poor little Lily ! 

She did not acquire much knowledge in life, her 
learning being restricted to the fewest of objects. That 
history was her favorite pursuit would seem natural, 
since history treats of men, of their deeds and con- 
flicts, their happiness and grief, moving her heart to 
sympathy; and she cared for a book only inasmuch as it 
spoke of her fellows, otherwise she saw but dead letters 
which wearied her. In mechanical attainments, there- 
fore, she was ever backward ; it was next to impossible 
to teach her the use of a foreign tongue. Living a 
life of feeling, she could not but become contemplative 
and somewhat dreamy, reason inclinging to sit apart in 
her. We seriously endeavored to shake her up, as the 


FROM A LOST SOUL 89 

phrase goes, but it is a thankless task to attempt any- 
thing against nature. Wanting in communicativeness 
she was by no means, — to me at least she was ready to 
confide her every thought. 

The stories of the Bible had even been those she 
loved above all others. They had been the first food 
of her waking soul, and never anything impressed her 
more deeply than the death on the Cross of the Son of 
God, who loved sinful men and gave His life for them. 
That love and that suffering formed her earliest impres- 
sions, and the most lasting. Again and again she 
would read the holy record, and surely an angel has 
counted the tears she shed while so engaged. Unlike 
in aught else as she was to Mary Magdalene, she was 
like her in burning love for her crucified Lord. 

Later on the history of the Crusades moved her. 
The Crucified One was her first love, and stories of the 
crusaders first stirred her enthusiasm, the idea seizing 
on her so powerfully that the course of a few weeks 
seemed to add years to her growth. The enthusiasm 
cooled, but the thought remained, and thenceforth the 
Holy Land, where the Son of God had lived and died, 
was the object of her dearest longing. She would at 
first lend expression to her feelings, but she suffered fot 
it. Her little girl-friends nicknamed her the Lady Cru- 
sader. And even if they held their peace they could not 
refrain from teasing her by signs, holding up their 
fingers crosswise on meeting her; she, poor little thing, 
of course understood their amiable meaning. The 
Savior’s Cross thus early had become her cross. The 
mockery hurt her deeply, and she was not again heard 
to speak of the Holy Land. But where the lips must 
be silent, the heart perhaps clings to its longing all the 
more ardently. 


A MESSAGE 


90 

Would it not seem that she was little fitted for this 
world ? — not for my world, at any rate. Had I not 
been such a hopelessly miserable fellow, I must have 
known it, her very look must have told me — beautiful 
and pure as an angel! Beauty and its enjoyment had 
ever appeared to me as the very prizes of life; but never 
have I known anything more simply beautiful than the 
entire devotion of this child-soul in purity and truth, and 
unspotted by self-love. 

Some years passed away when my mother again 
thought fit to interfere. “That won’t do,” she said; 
“ you anticipate future happiness, and thereby will lose 
it. You must separate. You had better travel for a 
couple of years. I will watch over Lily meanwhile, and 
do what I can towards bringing her up for your delight. 
Yes, leave us, my son; the time will come when you will 
see the wisdom of my counsel.” 

I could not but own that my mother was right, and 
declared myself ready to make the effort in the interest 
of future happiness, or, more correctly, of promised 
enjoyment. It had become desirable, just about that 
time, that one of the partners of the firm should go 
to South America; it would be a lengthened absence. 
My old uncle could not undertake it; my cousin, junior 
partner like myself, did not care for the journey; I, 
therefore, yielding to my mother’s private representa- 
tions, offered to go. Lily dissolved in tears on taking 
leave; my mother’s severest influence scarcely could 
bring her to reason. I too was moved, but took com- 
fort in selfish thought. “Wait, little woman; we shall 
meet again, and future delight will be greater than 
present loss I ” 

I stayed away longer even than was expected. I 
often had news from home — letters, too, from Lily — 


FROM A LOST SOUL 91 

wonderful letters ! An angel might have written them, 
those delicately tender productions; and nothing could 
be more foreign to my own nature than the lovely 
thoughts expressed in those — shall I say — ethereal let- 
ters? But they did not sink into my heart: they only 
touched my senses. 

I returned at last and saw her again. I was charmed, 
— no, that is not the word, — I was enchanted I Grace- 
ful and slender — unutterably lovely, with maiden 
blushes, and veiling her eye§ — just quitting childhood; 
she was not quite fifteen. 

But as I pronounced her name she raised those 
wondrous eyes and looked at me. Joy trembled in 
tears, and echoed through my soul. It was but a look, 
but I was satisfied. I clasped her to my heart. 

Shall I call them happy, the days which now had 
dawned? They were happy, but not without a sting. 
Seeing Lily w^as as though reading her letters. Again 
and again I felt she was the child of another sphere. 
How should she satisfy me? Even while I clasped her 
in rapture I knew her aims and mine were far, far apart. 
As childlike as ever, hers was the same yielding tender- 
ness ; but her very affection filled me with regret. The 
love in which she moved was unknown to me; she and 
I were different as day and night, as heaven and hell. 

Some time passed away. Again my mother stepped 
between us, reminding me of the calls of good sense and 
propriety. The child must be left free to develop; our 
constant intercourse would end in her treating me as a 
brother always, and that was not what I wanted. It 
was desirable that I should take bachelor’s rooms, and 
the less I showed myself at home the better. For the 
rest I could make myself as agreeable to Lily as I 
pleased, and as might be compatible with the solemn 


A MESSAGE 


92 

promise not to speak to her of love till she should have 
completed her seventeenth year. 

My mother always had her way; I promised and 
took rooms. I saw she was right. Lily had not un- 
folded in my presence as she might have done. There 
was a change on my leaving, and a new relationship 
promised to grow out of the old one. She ceased being 
the mere child, her natural surrender clothing itself with 
maidenly reserve. I was obliged to be careful, and that 
was well. It was a time of trial, and continued so in 
spite of its own share of anticipating bliss. . . . 

I remembered Annie and made inquiries. Her father 
had died; what had become of her no one could tell. 
My mother could have told I doubted not, but I dared 
not ask her. I tried to stifle recollection, and with 
Lily’s unconscious assistance I succeeded. . . . 

There was sorrow on the horizon. Lily drooped. 
She had always been delicate, and waking womanhood 
found her more delicate still. Our utmost care gathered 
round her, and we resolved to winter in the south. Lily 
had grown thoughtful; the child was trying to under- 
stand herself, dreamily musing within her soul. She 
seemed more lovely than ever, beset with the riddles of 
her deepest being. But delight in her yielded to 
anxiety. 

Thus we three ^ — my mother, Lily, and myself — 
moved southward. It was a time of blessing; this 
period of my life appearing steeped in light, and show- 
ing of darkness only what seemed needful to enhance 
the light. Lily’s state of health grew less alarming; a 
year passed rapidly, I will not say without spot or blem- 
ish as far as it concerned myself, yet without leaving 
any real scar on the tablets of memory. It was all but 
Paradise — but now, now it is hell ! 


FROM A LOST SOUL 93 

How happy we were, we three together! My 
mother amiability itself — I anxious to be amiable — 
and Lily lifting her fair white cup to receive heaven’s 
dew. She was happy, and she showed it. How grace- 
fully she raised her drooping head 1 how radiant were 
her looks, drinking in the riches of beauty about her! 
Not only bodily, but mentally, she unfolded charm upon 
charm in the genial atmosphere, half a year working 
a marvel of change. Womanhood had risen in the 
blushes of dawn, sweet and fragrant as a rose just 
opening her chalice to the dewy kisses of morning. In 
her relation to me also childhood receded; as tender 
and submissive as ever, there was an unconscious dignity 
about her. She was no longer the petted darling, living 
only in the affection that surrounded her; but she had 
found riches of life, fathomless and beautiful, within 
her own being. And before long she, whose natural 
gifts of mind and heart far surpassed my own, had 
gained an ascendancy over me as complete as indescrib- 
able. Gladly I yielded myself to this influence ; it was 
a new delight — nobler and purer than any I had tasted 
before. Lily raised me above myself — I hardly knew 
it at the time; but new sensations, new interests, new 
hopes, filled my heart, teaching me gradually that there 
were better things in life than gratifying self and pleas- 
ing the senses. Day by day intercourse with her re- 
fined and ennobled my nature. I was in a fair way of 
becoming good, of becoming human, let me say ! 

Her own eyes had opened to the beauty of the world 
— other beauty than I had ever known, and by degrees 
I learned to see things with her eyes. But her look and 
longing continually soared beyond this world, which could 
not satisfy her deepest desire. And can you believe it, 
she drew me after her. What power, what influence in 


A MESSAGE 


94 

so tender, so fragile a creature ! It cost her no effort. 
I followed, followed, as though her soul were a beacon 
in darkness. I listened to her voice as to the guidance 
of a prophetess, directing my sight to a rapture of bliss. 
A new world, — a world of the spirit, — opened to my 
wondering gaze, a vision of life eternal dawning slowly 
beyond. I do remember them, those blissful hours lift- 
ing my soul from the dust. Ah, God in heaven, what 
hours, what recollections, and now — what despair. 

Another spring was at hand, we were thinking of 
moving homewards. Lily had suffered lately from 
somewhat alarming symptoms — spasms of the heart, 
the doctor said. But we would not disquiet ourselves, 
hoping nothing serious would supervene. Lily within 
these eighteen months had blossomed to such fulness 
of life, her measure overflowing, as it were, with youth 
and beauty, and adding to our happiness daily. It 
had rendered us fearless. But a strange anxiety took 
hold of Lily, showing itself whenever we spoke of re- 
turning home. I tried to discover what moved her, 
and to my utter astonishment, it appeared that an 
unsatisfied longing filled her heart. That old desire 
of her childhood to see the Holy Land had suddenly 
possessed her afresh; or perhaps the thought, as a 
hidden spark, had lived within her all these years. She 
entreated me not to take her home before she had set 
foot on the sacred soil, be it for ever so short a time. 
She could never rest, she thought, till she had been 
there, and if I would but take her thither, she would 
bless me for it even in heaven. 

I viewed her desire merely in the light of a childish 
fancy, even a foolish whim; yet in my secret heart I 
admired the faithful persistence with which evidently 
she had clung to that early love; it touched me, and I 


FROM A LOST SOUL 9^ 

resolved, as far as lay with me, that her wish should 
be gratified. Indeed, she might have asked for a far 
more foolish thing, and I could not have found it in 
me to deny her. When she begged for anything with 
that submissive angel look of hers, who could have re- 
sisted ! 

I consulted my mother; she demurred but eventu- 
ally agreed. We had spent those early spring days 
cruising about the Ionian Isles, and before long our 
faces w^ere set to the east. Lily thanked me with a 
look, a sweet loving look, which remained deathless 
in my heart — yea, and it will burn there with a pain 
unquenchable throughout the ages of hell. But from 
that hour a heavenly peace had settled on her. Silence 
had fallen upon her, but she was perfectly happy. 

A few words more and my story will be ended. Why 
should I add to my grief by speaking about it? But 
retrospect is not the least of hell’s torments. 

We touched at the coast of Palestine and disem- 
barked. As a queen I led her to the land of her desire, 
myself being the first of her servants. But her thoughts 
were not of queenship ; to her own mind she was but a 
humble pilgrim. Slowly we proceeded from one sacred 
spot to another. Lily’s illness was more serious than 
we guessed, but she would not hear of rest. She was 
suffering from heart-disease which had rapidly devel- 
oped. The end was as sudden as unlooked for. At 
Bethlehem, in a convent which received us for charity’s 
sake, she breathed her last, a few days before she had 
completed her seventeenth year. She died with the 
satisfied smile of a saint on her face, for her desire had 
been given her. 

Death with her had lost its terror. As one glorified 
she lay — pale, but in heavenly beauty ; her hands folded 


96 A MESSAGE 

on her virgin bosom where the world had not entered. 

Perhaps you will scarcely believe my words, that even 
in those last hours, and though I sickened with the sense 
of certain loss, she had power to lift me high above 
perishable grief. A fearful trust had come to me that, 
no matter what affliction remained on earth, the place 
was prepared where I might be united with her, where 
there is no more sorrow and no more pain, where death 
has passed away. 

Terrible delusion! 

Her last words fell on my heart as a blessing from 
the upper world : 

Thanks, Philip 1 I am happy < — God be with 
you I ” . . . 

I was stricken with grief. But my Inmost soul was 
buoyed with the hope that soon I, too, might rise beyond 
the reach of sorrow. In a holy kiss her last breath had 
mingled with mine. 

But scarcely was she gone when the old self-willed 
nature within me rose. Goaded to despair I was wild 
with the knowledge of bereavement — what a treasure 
I had lost, both of beauty and affection. And how 
near I had been to dreams realized — but a few days 
and she would have been mine! This then was the 
reward of years of patience and self-denial! In her 
I had saved up treasures — pleasures untold, to lose It 
all by a single blow! . . . And yet was it not 

meet it should be so? Should I not rejoice that she 
was spared the sad future that awaited her on earth? 
I could not rejoice then, Lily, but I think I could now — 
if I were not in hell! 

My mother too was grieved, but she did not lose 
her composure; she sorrowed more for me, I think, 
than for the loss of her we had loved. We buried 


FROM A LOST SOUL 97 

Lily in the Holy Land. She sleeps beneath a syca- 
more, not far from the spot where the Savior of men 
was born. 

We turned homeward. On our journey back I found 
Martin. 

Thus I became the man I was. I gave myself up 
to the world, and lived only for its pleasures. I loved 
no one but myself, excepting, perhaps, my mother and 
the boy I had adopted. I say perhaps, for that I really 
loved them I cannot now be sure. I conformed to out- 
ward Christianity, but my heart was far from it. True, 
I joined not the sinners who openly sit in the seat of the 
scornful, laughing at all things sacred; but after Lily’s 
death there was in reality nothing left I counted sacred, 
unless it be an occasional recollection of my own child- 
hood left far, far behind. For at times I did remember 
those early days at Aunt Betty’s knee, but I closed my 
heart, driving these thoughts away from it. 

Life dealt gently with my mother. She preserved 
her charms, and continued the perfect lady, admired 
by all. She had always been pious, but she took to being 
saintly now, trying hard to show me the way of life. 
However, she could not bring me further than that, for 
her sake, I paid proper attention to Christian obser- 
vances, and, for my own sake, to common decency in 
the pursuit of pleasure. 

Let me stop here and rest from the pain of confession. 
Do not imagine that confessing with us Is followed 
by relief. I am In hell, where there Is no more re- 
pentance, no more sorrow for sin. 


LETTER VIL 


Light increases slowly, but we never reach further than 
a kind of luminous twilight — the reflection of Para- 
dise. Time passes amid suffering, torture, and regret. 
Do not imagine that because I can write what perchance 
interests you, it follows that it interests me, or that I 
can fill up my time. That, too, is but imaginary; time 
seems to pass, but alleviation there is none. Upon 
earth the worst misery yields to the consolation that, 
sooner or later, it must come to an end. But here — 
awful fact — time itself is endless ! 

Memories! memories! Facts long since forgotten, 
here they are, as though they had happened but yester- 
day. I try to escape them, and once more recollections 
of Aunt Betty are something of an anodyne. In think- 
ing of her, and her invariable kindness to me throughout 
the years of my childhood, I long for tears of gratitude. 
But the eye is dry as a parched desert. How good she 
was to me, but kindest of all to my father! And how 
loving to all whom she could serve. The humblest was 
not beneath her, if she could lend him a helping hand. 
How often would she sit up for my mother, sending the 
tired maid to bed. How often would she spend an 
evening with the servant girls, showing them how to 
make their own clothes, and teaching them the art of 
laying by something out of their wages. She would 
read to them, and amuse them to keep them steady, and 
was actually going to teach the coachman his letters. 
But there my father interfered, introducing him to a 
night-school instead. 


98 


99 


FROM A LOST SOUL 

Her health was anything but strong,* yet she never 
considered herself when the burdens of others could be 
lightened. If ever anything made her angry, it was the 
request to take care of herself. If '' she would say, 
as if the most monstrous demand had been proffered, 
‘Mf ” — what do you mean ! ” She had put self so far 
away that the idea of caring for it appeared to her al- 
most ludicrous. Love gave her a wondrous power of 
self-command. When my mother had hurt her feel- 
ings — no rare occurrence I fear — and she had brushed 
away the tears, she never failed doing a special turn 
of sisterly service with a face of angelic devotion; anx- 
ious to appear all the more light-hearted in my father’s 
presence, if perchance he had noticed it, and looked 
distressed. Of course her own loving and hopeful dis- 
position assisted her in ever making the best of things; 
but more than this, it was the divine spirit moving in 
her. Love had become second nature to her. And 
love always helped her in doing the right thing, how- 
ever strangely she might set about it. ^Her education 
had been neglected, even as regards religious knowl- 
edge. If you had asked her the simplest questions 
about faith and hope and charity she would probably 
have startled you with ignorant answers; but she had 
these things, and they made her a child of heaven. 

The room she had chosen for herself was simple, 
but her own neatness pervaded it. Yet one could not 
say there was any order in her room. Every available 
space was littered with objects great and small in won- 
derful variety, offering to the observant mind a key to 
my aunt’s inmost nature; for amid valuables of every 
description there were articles only lit for the dust-bin 
apparently. But my aunt knew why she valued them. 
They were a sort of landmarks, in her estimation, by 


1 00 


A MESSAGE 

which her life’s history could be traced. Even at an 
early age I had a vague notion of the sanctity of these 
relics, and must own I handled them reverently. They 
would set my fancy going, and I would invent stories 
where auntie’s authentic knowledge appeared loth to 
lift the veil. 

Aunt Betty, as a rule, dressed more than simply, 
despising all pretence at fashion in her daily life. Not 
that she “ could not an’ she would,” as she used to say. 
And she valued a handsome present now and then, not 
for the sake of the object itself, but as a mark of peo- 
ple’s regard for her. She liked to be thus honored by 
those, for whom she spent herself in service ! Both my 
father and my mother lost no opportunity of presenting 
her with costly gifts, articles of dress especially, if my 
mother was the giver. Aunt Betty would accept these 
things with almost childish satisfaction, shutting them 
up forthwith in her spacious wardrobe. And thus it 
came about that she owned quite an array of millinery, 
shawls, mantles, bonnets, laces, furs and what not, with- 
out ever wearing them. That they grew old-fashioned 
did not trouble her in the least; but that the moth should 
not eat them was her conscientious care. For this rea- 
son she would hold regular exhibitions, when bed, table, 
and chairs were loaded with her treasures by way of 
giving them an airing; she walking about with a quiet 
expression of ownership, her gentle hands smoothing 
out or dusting her finery. But her eyes seemed far 
away. Or, if a gay mood supervened, she would even 
place a feathered bonnet on her dear old head, looking 
at herself in the glass with a peculiar smile, as though 
she were comparing the once maiden Betty, whose youth 
and beauty brought homage to her feet, with the aging 
spinster whom the world scarcely knew now, whose life 


FROM A LOST SOUL loi 

had run in the narrow channel of sacrifice. “ I am an 
old goose,” she would say, putting up her gear with her 
lavender bags. 

But auntie, besides these things, owned a small library 
of choice works, beautifully bound. She would dust 
them as lovingly as those unused garments. But she 
never read them, having neither time nor quiet, she said. 
“ Some day when I am old, and no longer needed, I will 
read them all,” she would add. Among her many pe- 
culiarities her habit of reading aloud deserves notice. 
Understanding in her case, presupposed hearing, which 
proves that the art of reading with her never reached 
beyond the rudimentary stage. Poor Aunt Betty, keep- 
ing your books for a time when you are no longer need- 
ed! But that time found you singing psalms with the 
angels. 

In the dusk of the evening I would often seek her 
room. I would find her sitting in silence and lost in 
thought. But she was never annoyed at my disturbing 
her — she loved me too much for that. And then she 
would begin telling me stories, quite a special gift with 
her. I doubt not but that she mostly made up her 
stories as she told them. What if they were no great 
literary productions, they breathed a poetry of their own 
— a warmth and loving-kindness that fascinated my 
childish heart. It was Aunt Betty who first instructed 
me in religion. If her teaching was not exactly dog- 
I matic, it was most truly practical. The impressions 
^ it left — so deep, so sweet, so tender — how could they 
I ever fade away! 

1 One evening we were sitting by her window. The 
I sky was clear and the stars were shining with unusual 
' brightness. The wondrous sight impressed my childish 
il mind. No doubt I had noticed them before; but look- 


102 


A MESSAGE 


ing back to that hour, it seems as though on that even- 
ing I first beheld the sparkling lights of heaven. I 
wanted to know what the stars were, and what was 
behind them. Then Aunt Betty spoke to me of the 
dwelling-place of our Heavenly Father and its many 
mansions of indescribable beauty. I would go there 
some day on leaving the earth, if I were a good and 
holy child. 

The prospect pleased me, but curiosity was not satis- 
fied. I wanted to know more — I wanted a direct 
answer to my question. Now, many an instructor of 
youth might have been puzzled, but Aunt Betty’s im- 
agination was tar too fertile to be so easily at fault. 
She continued therefore: “Behind the stars, my child 
there is a grand beautiful hall of glory such as eye has 
not seen, and there God sits upon His throne with the 
only-begotten Son at His right hand. Right in the 
middle of the hall there is a Christmas tree, higher than 
the highest mountain on earth, full of lights and most 
beautiful presents. And who do you think are gathered 
beneath that tree ? — why, all the good children who, 
having lived holy lives, have come to be children of God 
and blessed angels. There they are, always happy, 
always good. They rejoice at the tree which is pre- 
pared for them, and praise God with new songs, their 
voices ringing sweetly through the spaces of heaven. 
The presents on the tree are all theirs — I mean they 
are always being given to them — yet the tree is never 
empty.” 

I thought this delightful. “ But what are the stars ? ” 
I said, reverting to my question. 

“The stars, child? — well, I will tell you,” said 
auntie. “ Right round that hall there are innumerable 
little peep-holes through ^v•hich the light of the Christ- 


FROM A LOST SOUL 163 

mas tree shines upon earth. We call them stars. 
Whenever the little angel-children have done singing, 
they go and look through these peep-holes, anxious to 
know whether boys and girls on earth are trying to be 
good, and likely to join them some day; for they con- 
sider them their little brothers and sisters, and wish 
them to become as happy as they are. Whenever you 
see the stars therefore, you must remember that through 
each one of them the eye of some angel looks down upon 
you. That is why the stars twinkle; just as these big 
eyes of yours twinkle as you look at me. Now you see 
that you must always try to be good and obedient, else 
some angels would fill with tears; and you would not 
like them to be sad while watching you.” 

This account so moved me that tears rose to my own 
eyes, and I lay sobbing in Aunt Betty’s lap. It was the 
desire of knowing more which first tended to quiet me : 

But, auntie,” I said, “ tell me what happens to all 
the bad children? ” 

This question very nearly puzzled her. She was too 
tender-hearted to speak to me of hell and its terrors, 
so she said: “The bad children — well, I think they 
are put into some dark corner — far, far away from 
God and His dear Son.” 

Again I was not satisfied; there must be more. 

“ Well,” she continued, — “ listen. The bad chil- 
dren are shut up in an ugly room, where the fire has 
gone out, and where it is so cold and miserable that they 
chatter with their teeth. It is dark too, for the light 
has been taken away, and they tremble with fear. They 
cry and knock at the door as hard as they can, but no 
one pays any attention.” 

I thought that dreadful. “ I am frightened, auntie,” 
I whispered, pressing quite close to her. 


104 A MESSAGE 

“Look up at the stars, my child,” she said; “then 
you won’t be frightened.” And she stroked my hair 
lovingly. 

Fear left me. The stars did twinkle as though they 
said, “ Be good, little child; ” and I felt quite ready to 
be good. 

“ I should like to hear them sing,” I went on pres- 
ently. “ Do you know, auntie, how angels sing? ” 

“ I will try and show you,” she responded, falling 
in at once with my desire. And with her sweet voice 
she sang to me one of her favorite hymns. How beauti- 
ful it sounded in the evening twilight. There was noth- 
ing grand about her voice, but something so childlike 
in its gentle tones that the song sank into my heart as I 
kept watching the stars ; and they seemed to look down 
upon me as kind as auntie herself, twinkling again and 
again, “ Be good ! ” Another moment, and my hearing 
was charmed, following my gaze. Earth was not, but 
only heaven, and auntie’s hymn was the new song of 
angels. I listened with a rapt devotion that swelled my 
childish soul, folding my hands unconsciously as Aunt 
Betty had taught me ; and I tried to twinkle back at the 
stars with my own eyes to let them see that with my ears, 
with my heart, I was listening to their angels. 

When the singing ceased and silence had carried me 
back to the present, I felt quite poor and forsaken. But 
all that night in dreams I saw the heavenly tree, and 
heard the songs of glory. 

Many an evening we spent like that. Aunt Betty sing- 
ing, and I watching the stars. And before long I had 
learned her hymns and we sang them together. I be- 
lieve it was with auntie as with myself: singing our 
hymns to the praise of God, we both felt carried away 


FROM A LOST SOUL 105 

from earth, both longing for that which is behind the 
stars. 

One evening Aunt Betty told me the story of the rich 
man and poor Lazarus. It greatly affected me. I was 
very glad for the poor beggar to have been carried right 
into Abraham’s bosom, where he was so happy; but 
the rich man longing in the torment of hell for a little 
drop of water moved my deepest pity. I grieved for 
him, shedding an agony of tears. Poor rich man, how 
hard it was to punish him so dreadfully! Auntie was 
quite unhappy at my distress. No doubt she meant to 
impress me, but not in this way, and she tried her utmost 
to calm my feelings. 

“ Don’t take it to heart so much, child,” she said. 
“ I do not think you need. And it was very unkind of 
Father Abraham to deny him a poor drop of water. 
God, I dare say, did not like that at all; indeed, if I 
know Him aright, I should not be surprised if Father 
Abraham had a scolding for it. For if a drop of water 
could comfort the rich man in his torment, I don’t be- 
lieve God would have refused it. And He who freely 
gave His precious blood would not be so unkind 
about mere water. And, moreover, didn’t you hear 
that the rich man even in hell remembered his brethren ? 
That, I am quite certain, pleased God very much in- 
deed. Love to the brethren cannot but move the heart 
of God, even if it comes right from the midst of hell.” 

Thus she comforted me. She would not have hesi- 
tated to say a great deal more than this to still my grief. 
Poor Aunt Betty! — I said she could not dogmatize: 
the one creed she was sure of was God’s wonderful 
love; and judging that love by her own loving heart, 
she believed it fully capable of flooding all creation with 
its own indwelling goodness. But why do I call her 


io6 


A MESSAGE 


poor? It is I who am poor — all the poorer for memo- 
ries! I will not call them painful memories, though 
I ache with them. Do you understand me? Even in 
hell something precious is bound up with such memories, 
though on the other hand it cannot but add to grief — 
just as a certain sweetness in some viands brings out the 
fact that they are sour. I speak of childhood’s memo- 
ries : those of later yearsj save those connected with Lily, 
are all sorrow — all despair; I would gladly forget 

them, but it is part of my punishment that I cannot. 

Thus I distinctly remember the religious instruction 

which was to prepare me for confirmation. I was 
deeply moved, and hardly know how such impressions 
should pass so quickly, so entirely, as though they had 
not been. The clergyman in question was as godly as 
venerable; the animal nature was strong in me even 

then, but he knew how to keep it under. It needed but 
a look of his eye, and I felt a prisoner to the divine, 
listening anxiously to his teaching. He had a rare gift 
of touching the heart and drawing it out. He spoke 
to us on the words : “Be ye reconciled to God 1 ” 
How could I ever forget those words? Alas, I did for- 
get them, but now they pierce the soul ; they keep ringing 
in the brain : “ Be reconciled — be reconciled to God 1 ” 
And when once their memory is upon me, nothing will 
drive it out, till some other recollection, some other pain, 
takes their place. 

I remember all he said on that occasion, — I remem- 
ber it now from beginning to end, — but I could not 
repeat it, there being a great gulf between now and the 
time of those words. Nor can the recollection of them 
do me any good; they are barren of comfort, of instruc- 
tion — barren entirely of peace. It is only my mind 
which takes them in now; the heart is closed. It is as 


FROM A LOST SOUL 107 

though the words were hollow; or perhaps I am hollow 
and empty, and there is nothing left that can fill me. I 
do remember that he spoke to us of God’s own word, 
whereby salvation was offered to men, but all that is out- 
side of me only. I am like the rich man thirsting for a 
drop of water, but there is no one to give it. I make 
painful efforts to drink in, as it were, any of the words 
I think of; they are there; I once knew them by heart, 
but I cannot lay hold of them. They seem quite close 
at times, but when I would take them to myself, they are 
gone. This terribly hopeless effort is perhaps the worst 
of hell’s torments. 

You may understand from this how it is possible 
with me to speak of things pertaining to the kingdom 
of God — naming the Saviour, the Crucified One, speak- 
ing of repentance and faith — without the faintest share 
in their blessing; nay, mentioning them with my lips 
merely, despair filling the heart. Everything is vain 
and empty in hell: those words are but soulless sounds 
to me; I know them outwardly, I can speak of them, 
but their meaning is nothing to me. I know that there 
is a Saviour, and that He is the Son of God, but Him 
I know not; it is empty knowledge; His very name 
even is gone. I hate myself, and say I have deserved 
it all; but it is fruitless repentance — repentance with- 
out cleansing tears. And as for faith, of course I be- 
lieve — must believe; but that too is empty — not faith 
which clings to that which it believes. Do not the 
devils believe — they must — and tremble? “Be re- 
conciled to God ! ” What power these words had to 
move me! I felt in that hour as though it must be 
man’s one and only object on earth to seek reconcilia- 
tion with God, and, having found it, to go to Him 
through the portal of death. I remembered the stars 


io8 


A MESSAGE 


and their loving message, “ Be good ! ” and I felt ready 
to turn my back upon the world once for all. My first 
communion was as an earnest that I had set my feet 
upon the path to heaven, but I quickly turned aside; at 
the very church door the world lay waiting with its 
pleasant road to hell.' 

“ Be reconciled to God! ” — the words keep sound- 
ing about me, not as an echo from heaven, but rather 
as a curse of hell. “ Be reconciled — reconciled to 
God I ” Why must I hear it when there is no more 
reconciliation — when the door of mercy is closed. O 
terrible retribution ! 

If at times I know not what to do with myself, I 
show myself in the Row, for of course that too is here 

— Hyde Park, Champs Elysees, Prater, Unter den Lin- 
den, Corso, Prado, all in one. And upon my word I 
do not think there is much difference between these fash- 
ionable resorts upon earth and their semblance here 
' — I mean so far as what the world pleases to call style 
is concerned; we could scarcely outdo the world in that 
respect; but we have far more variety. For with you 
but one fashion can prevail at a time, whereas here all 
fashions flourish, all the nonsense of centuries com- 
bined. Just think of that — all the inventions of la 
mode brought together, say of a thousand years! 
Could there be a more absurd picture, taking the fash- 
ion of dress for instance? Whatever gloom or wretch- 
edness be upon me, I assure you I laugh right out at 
the sight — folly convicted out of its own mouth as it 
were. Just stop for a moment and imagine the effect 

— women covered to the neck with flounces and fur- 
belows on the one hand, or half naked on the other; 
puffed out to deformity here, tight as pump-handles 


FROM A LOST SOUL 109 

there. Bonnets like coal-scuttles here, bonnets like 
cheese-plates there ! But who could name all their non- 
sense of farthingales and stomachers, ruffles and laces, 
crinolines and high-art-styles, fancy costumes and di- 
vided skirts? not to mention chignons like very tow- 
ers of Babel, and simpleton fringes, and what not. 
Imagine them, I say, the fools of ten years only brought 
together, and try to think of the fools of ten centuries! 
And then to believe any one fashion beautiful, any one 
of them dictated by the “ good taste ” to which they 
all pretend. In the world somehow they pass for beau- 
tiful, perhaps because only one at a time can rule; but 
since every fashion which has had its day straightway 
goes to hell, and since there is no past here but a con- 
tinuous present, they all flourish together, and a nice 
medley it is 1 One feels ashamed of humanity at the 
absurd sight. And what is more, fashionable people 
here are thoroughly ashamed of themselves, though they 
try hard to appear very proud of their clothes. It is 
a show of vanity, and we are horribly conscious of it — 
I say we, since I am sure I am no better than the rest. 
We know what sorry fools we are, but nevertheless 
we are very anxious to dress ourselves, choosing the 
fashion we followed in the world. And the worst is, 
our clothes do not even clothe us, as I told you al- 
ready; we all see through each other’s attire, no matter 
how stylish it is. True, that painful sense of naked- 
ness is common to all here; still to be naked is one 
thing, and to go about naked, pretending at the same 
time to be fashionably dressed, is another; and it is very 
hard to be laughed at, knowing all the while how heart- 
ily one deserves it. 

Would all the votaries of fashion, men and women 
on earth, could view — were it for a moment only — its 


I lO 


A MESSAGE 


true appearance as seen in hell, and they would never 
desire to be fashionable again! 

It is strange — no, not strange, but sadly true — 
that most people believe vanity and the love of dress 
no great sin, but, at worst, only one of those amiable 
foibles to which one may plead guilty quite innocently. 

Love of dress in itself perhaps need not become a 
sin — I say pe^'haps; but look at it as you please, there 
is that connected with it which cannot but tend to the 
soul’s ruin. Its aims and the aims of the spirit lie 
widely apart; it takes the place of better things, and 
vanity, clinging to you as a cloud, will hide the true ob- 
jects of life. Men or women ruled by vanity fritter 
away their time, and when they die not only good works 
do not follow them, but opportunities wasted stand 
round their bier. Who has the face now to say that 
vanity, that love of dress, is harmless? 

I look upon my own life. How plainly I see it all 
now, — how gladly would I improve opportunities, 
could they but return I 


LETTER VIIL 


It may surprise you to hear me speak of books in hell, 
but you will soon perceive the fitness, of things, it being 
neither more nor less than this: whatever is bad must 
come to hell, so of printed matter whatever is morally 
evil or arrogantly stupid tends hitherwards, the books 
arriving first, the authors following, and their publish- 
ers along with them. You will understand then that we 
are well off for literature, of a certain description, that is 
to say. 

Polite literature for instance has provided us with 
countless novels, very popular, if trashy and sometimes 
immodest. There is no civilized nation or country that 
has not produced its share, varying in quantity or qual- 
ity. They seem represented by two species chiefly — 
one can hardly call them schools — the purely sensa- 
tional and the sensationally impure; the former being 
content to hint where the latter touch boldly, the for- 
mer often supremely worthless, where the latter are 
wickedly ingenious. Many authors, and especially 
some authoresses, appear to find their life’s duty in pan- 
dering to depraved taste, or worse, in fostering it. I 
might mention names, but I refrain. Only let me as- 
sure these experts of the pen, ladies and gentlemen, 
that they are well known here. No doubt it will cre- 
ate quite a flutter in their bosoms, adding not a little 
to their sense of fame, to learn that their talent is so 
extensively appreciated, and that their books are fash- 
ionable, not only in polite society on earth, but even 
in hell I There is this drawback, to be sure, to damp 
III 


II2 


A MESSAGE 


their spirits, that for the present they must be satisfied 
with mere honor — pay being withheld till they them- 
selves join their circle of readers here. Then their re- 
ward shall be given them in this matter also. 

This branch of the so-called belles-lettres, trashy nov- 
els, is greatly in vogue upon earth; it is not the good 
books which chiefly enrich the publishers, or authors 
either. There are people whose intellectual food con- 
sists in nothing but the former; but the soul lives not 
that could testify to mental or spiritual growth by their 
aid. If the use of such books is null on earth, what 
must it be here, where not even the miserable object re- 
mains of whiling away the time? 

But to proceed: there is no lack here even of the- 
ological writings — especially of modern commentaries, 
but also of the dogmatic and homiletical kind. To 
speak plainly, how many a book or fine sermons or of 
religious comfort arrives here, preceding the hireling 
shepherds ! With casuistry too we are thoroughly pro- 
vided. The Middle Ages are represented chiefly by a 
vast amount of priestly falsehood, systematized into all 
sorts of fanatical quibbles and sacerdotal inventions 
concerning the deep questions of religion. The more 
modern school may be said to have reached a climax 
in the days of Voltaire and the encyclopedists, taking a 
fresh start with Kant and his followers. You observe 
I speak broadly, in a European sense, refraining from 
particularizing or quoting nearer home. You may 
judge for yourself, and be sure that no literary means 
are wanting here to advance the interests of atheism. 
For, mind you, even in hell those who “ believe and 
tremble ” may be brought to a worse state. For the 
rest, since I never troubled myself about theology, either 


FROM A LOST SOUL 113 

as a science or otherwise, I am not likely to study it 
here. 

Besides this so-called true theology, there are found 
with us the writings of those puffed-up, half-crazy 
fanatics, — the false prophets of every degree, who 
make a sort of trade of religion. Their literary effu- 
sions are generally laughed at, even here; but in most 
cases the author himself arrives before long, and 
laughter for him turns to weeping. These curious di- 
vines have a special corner assigned to them in this 
place, differing greatly from the paradise they believed 
themselves heirs of in virtue of their singular calling. 

Philosophy too is well represented. Philosophers on 
the whole are a harmless tribe. Some of them may be 
groping for wisdom which includes goodness and piety, 
and others are merely the victims of some peculiar mania 
which hurts no one. We get the writings of those 
only whom conceit of intellect drives to the front. I 
might quote some curious instances, showing how, 
within a professor’s den, some ten feet square, the 
universe may be grasped, the mystery of life solved, 
eternity gauged; in fact, how the ocean of the infinite 
may be got into the nutshell of a finite brain. 

In passing merely I mention the literature of the 
law. If I ignored it altogether it might be taken for 
disrespect, and I am sure I would rather not offend the 
gentlemen of the robe. Let me state the plain fact: I 
reverence justice, but I feel doubtful about lawyers. 
Did not some sharp-witted urchin make the discovery 
that the devil was a “ lawyer ” from the beginning. I 
would rather wash my hands of them, not understand- 
ing them in the least. 

Last, but not least, I turn to the literary geniuses 
of the reviewing department, at the risk even of most 


A MESSAGE 


1 14 

dreadfully offending them. No reviewer, I presume, 
would flatter himself with the conceit that his disserta- 
tions could have any but the most ephemeral value; 
I feel loth to disabuse their laudable modesty, but I am 
bound to let them know that some do live — live in 
hell! I have made the startling discovery that of re- 
views not a few appear to be written in ignorance, or 
inspired by envy and even downright malice. Review- 
ers form a species apart, not nurtured in babyhood, it 
would seem, with the milk of human kindness. I was 
assured once that in order to review a book properly, 
one had need to be something of a misanthrope — 
something of a cynic at any rate, since barking and bit- 
ing seems to be the great delight. Be this as it may, 
I have always maintained that reviewers, as a natural 
curiosity, may be divided into two classes — those who 
are capable of passing judgment, and those who are not. 
The former, strange to say, cautiously, and indeed 
rarely, advance their criticism, and nothing of theirs is 
ever seen here. 

The latter may be subdivided into professionals and 
amateurs. The first of these who trade, as it were, 
in the reviewing line, will have to plead guilty in most 
cases that they started originally with an aspiration of 
book-writing, but did not succeed. They have never 
got over their disappointment. 

The second subdivision consists chiefly — would you 
believe it? — of a set of precocious youths, as clever 
as they are conceited, requiring an outlet for their exu- 
berance. 1 have known them of the age of twenty, 
and even less, feeling grown-up all of a sudden by means 
of their first review: if their criticism was somewhat 
green, there was audacity to cover it. They don’t mean 
any special harm, but they do feel themselves seated on 


FROM J LOST SOUL 115 

a throne, duly hidden of course, and snubbing authors 
— their grandfathers in age and experience. 

By dint of numerous reviews, then, we are kept an 
courant with the events of the book-market. When- 
ever a specially mordant piece of criticism arrives here 
we know that it has been called forth by a publication 
which is probably good and certainly harmless. It is 
the caricature only which reaches us; but it is so, alas, 
with most things ! 

As for newspapers ? — it stands to reason that much 
of the daily food provided in these quarters cannot fare 
any better, since ambition of gain, private or public, 
unblushingly presides at the board. How many a jour- 
nal has but the one object in view — the making of 
money? How many others have actually sold them- 
selves to further the paltry interests of this or that party, 
not caring in the least, in their hardened consciences, 
how far astray they lead the public mind? 

And what shall I say of the appalling amount of 
despatches, notes, and official memoranda interchanged 
between the various Cabinets for no other reason. It 
would seem, but that of misleading?. — specimens of 
ambiguous phraseology, ever appealing to truth and 
justice, but heeding neither truth nor justice wherever 
a chance of gain or even the interests of vulgar passion 
come to the front. This sort of political documents are 
rarely got hold of by newspapers even; on earth they 
are of the things that walk in secret, but they fail not to 
furnish us down here with many a curious explanation 
of historic events. I have come to suspect that nothing 
is more outrageously false, and cruel, and opposed to 
every will of God, than what goes by the name of 
higher politics. 

You see from this sketch that we are not at a loss 


ii6 A MESSAGE 

for reading, but you will also perceive that the vile pro- 
ductions reaching us can nowise tend to edify or even 
really instruct us. If they enable us to follow events in 
the world, it is by a kind of inverted effect, suggest- 
ing in fact the very opposite of what they assert. There 
is here no pleasure in reading; on the contrary, the more 
one peruses, the more one sickens ; but nauseated though 
we feel, we are unable to get out of the intellectual 
slough, the mire of a lying literature. 

I never imagined while living on earth that I had 
need to render thanks for anything; that health, riches, 
happy days, were gifts to be grateful for, but rather 
accepted them as the natural appurtenances of my ex- 
istence; and if I thought about them at all, it was only 
to wish for more, for I was never satisfied with life 
as I found it, nor with the world I lived in. Now I 
view things differently; I see now that the gifts of life 
are blessings unspeakable, and all the greater for being 
entirely undeserved. On looking back — and I am 
ever looking back now, there being nothing before me 
save one thing, awful and horrible, the judgment to 
come — on looking back, I say, I am bound to con- 
fess that the blessings of a single day of life on earth 
are innumerable as the stars. How rich is life ! There 
may be misery and trouble on earth — and I believed 
I had my full share of both — but it has all dwindled 
to nothing since I have come to know the wretchedness 
of hell. Let me assure you out of my own dire ex- 
perience that the most suffering creature on earth has 
much to be thankful for. Man’s life, whatever it be, 
should bring him to his knees daily. And if you have 
nothing left of earth’s blessings but air and light, and 
a piece of bread to satisfy your hunger, you have need to 
give thanks. I see it now, but for me it is too late. In 


FROM A LOST SOUL 117 

hell there is nothing — absolutely nothing to be thank- 
ful for; you, however whose sun has not yet set, may 
still learn to yield your hearts in gratitude. Ah, hear 
me, I beseech you; there is no help for me, but help 
may come to you ! 

I have told you, my friend, how continuously I am 
the prey of memories, but how much so — to what ex- 
tent, I mean — you little guess. That deeds of iniquity 
and particular sins should assail me, tormenting the 
soul as with fire, is natural. But this is not all. There 
are other things, counted for little in the world, which 
cling to conscience with a terrible vividness. Every lit- 
tle falsehood and unjust dealing, every word of deceit 
and breach of fealty, every evil example and want of 
kindness, — they are all, all present now, piercing the 
heart as with daggers of regret. I thought so little of 
these things in life, that I scarcely stopped to consider 
them; they seemed buried on the spot, every year 
adding its own share to the mouldering heap. They 
have risen now and stand about me, I see them and I 
tremble. 

I was just thinking of an example, out of hundreds 
which press round me. I take one at random. I have 
felt haunted lately by the sorrowful eyes of a poor 
little street boy. Wherever I turn I see him, or rather 
not so much him as his tearful troubled gaze, rising 
in judgment against me. It has all come back to my 
mind how one evening I sauntered about in the park, 
a poor little beggar running alongside, pressing me to 
buy a halfpenny worth of matches. I did not want 
them, and told him so, but he persisted in crying, “ Only 
a ha’penny, sir — only a ha’penny.” He annoyed me, 
and, taking him by the arm, I rudely pushed him 
away. I did not mean to hurt him, although, to tell 


A MESSAGE 


ii8 

the truth, there was not a particle of kindness in me at 
the time. Nor lay the wrong in not buying his matches ; 

I was quite at liberty to refuse, had I denied him 
kindly. But he annoyed me and I was angry. The 
child, flung aside roughly, fell to the road; I heard a 
cry; perhaps he had hurt himself — perhaps it was only 
grief for his matches lying about in the mud. I turned 
and met a look from his eyes, full of trouble and silent 
accusation. It would have been so easy for me to 
make good my thoughtlessness, so little would have 
comforted the child, but I walked away heedless of his 
grief. 

Now few people would call that downright wicked- 
ness — few people in the world I mean ; but here, un- 
fortunately we are forced to judge differently. Years 
and years have passed since, for I was a young man at 
the time, but the memory of that child has returned 
upon me, his look of sorrowful reproof adding to the 
pangs of hell. It is but an example, as I said, and there j 
are many — many! | 

But not mere deeds — every word of evil carelessly | 
spoken in the days of earthly life comes back to me with 
similar force. As poisoned arrows such words once 
quitted my lips: as poisoned arrows they come back to 
me, piercing the heart. Oh consider it while living 
voice is yours, and speak not lightly I There is no say- ' 
ing what harvest of sin may spring from a single word. | 
Arid if pity for others will not restrain you, be advised 
by pity for your own selves, since requital will come to ' 
yourselves only in the end. 

And not merely deeds and words, but every harmful 
thought recurs to me, to gnaw away at my heart. 
There is a saying with certain philosophers in the world 
that nothing ever is lost. If this be true in the material 


FROM A LOST SOUL 119 

world, how much more so Is it in spiritual things — ah, 
terrible truth ! 

And further, apart from the evil done, it is the good 
left undone, the opportunities wasted, which stand 
around me with pitiless scourge, and their name Is 
legion ! Thus everything, you see, both what I have 
done and left undone, comes to life here in this place 
of woe, — takes shape, I ought to say, — rising In accu- 
sation against me. I try to escape, but they are about 
me everywhere, those shapes of terror, enough to peo- 
ple a world with despair; they persecute me, they tor- 
ture me, and I am their helpless prey. Memories of 
the good left undone — alas, they are far more bitter 
than those of the evil done ! For temptation to do 
wrong often was great, and In my own strength I 
failed to conquer; but to do good for the most part 
would have cost little. If any, effort. I see It now with 
the new Insight into life which hell gives. The man 
lives not who Is excused from leaving good undone; 
however poor and humbly situated he may be, oppor- 
tunity Is ever at his door. It is for him only to open 
his heart and take In the opportunity; for his own heart 
is a well of power and of blessing to boot. He who Is 
the fountain of love and purity, from whom every good 
and perfect gift cometh, has wondrously arranged it, 
that in this respect there Is but little difference between 
■ the rich and the poor, the gentle and the simple. Let 
1 me conjure you then, brothers and sisters, listen to the 
voice of your heart while yet It Is day! Listen, I 
I say, and obey, lest the bitterness of repentance overtake 
you with the night, when no man can work! Ah, let 
ri no opportunity for the doing of good escape you, for It 
r,' will rise against you when nothing is left but to wail In 
I anguish, 
i 8 


120 A MESSAGE 

I do not address these words to those who have 
grown pitiless as flint — none but God could touch 
them; but there are well-disposed hearts, which a ray 
of light may help to expand. I was not hard-hearted 
while I lived in the world; on the contrary, I could for 
the most part easily be moved to charity, if some one 
took the trouble to remind me. What ruined me was 
that boundless love of self which prevented my seeing 
the wants of others; or if I did see them, I did not stop 
to consider them. I receive now the reward of my 
deeds. Would that this fearful experience of mine 
could work a change in you; that might somewhat as- 
suage my deepest sufferings ! But even in that much of 
mercy I cannot believe; the soul in torment can doubt 
only — doubt eternally. 

I cannot but give you another example. I remem- 
ber a poor family living in a miserable cottage not far 
from the lordly dwelling I inhabited. As often as I 
passed that way I looked through the lowly window, 
for a bald head moving to and fro in measured inter- 
vals attracted my notice. It was long, however, before 
I saw the face. The father of a numerous family 
would sit there in ill-health, gaining a humble liveli- 
hood. It appeared to be not necessity alone, but delight 
in his work also, which kept him up. He was a wood- 
carver of no mean capacity, and worked for a wholesale] 
house of children’s playthings in the city. Strange to 
say, he was particularly clever in producing all sorts of 
ravenous beasts — he, who looked a personification of 
meekest mildness. Lions, wolves, and tigers graced his 
window-sill, he bearing trouble as a patient lamb. I 
said he was sickly, and the family was large. The wife 
took in washing; and they helped one another, each try- 
ing to ease the other’s load. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 121 

But misfortune overtook them; the wholesale busi- 
ness failed; the poor man lost his livelihood. The bald 
head no longer appeared by the window — The cottage 
looked a grave. What had become of him? I once 
asked myself the question and stopped there, for you 
know self scarcely left me time to trouble myself with 
other people’s affairs. 

Still, opportunity thrust itself in my way. I saw him 
again — not merely his bald head, but himself. The 
poor man, bowed down with ill-health, and unused to 
hard labor, stood working in a brickfield with trembling 
knees. 

I could not but pity him. I knew he was working 
himself to death, trying to gain food for his little ones. 
Indeed, he was In as imminent danger of life as If all 
the lions, wolves, and tigers whose Images he had carved 
had gathered round to destroy him. I witnessed a 
touching scene one day. Passing about noon I saw the 
wife there, who had come with her husband’s dinner — 
a dinner I would not have looked at. I saw how ten- 
derly she wiped the weary forehead, how the children — 
for they all had come — clung to the father, the young- 
est climbing his knees, and how grateful he was for their 
affection, which roused him to new endeavors to gain a 
miserable pittance. 

The sight really moved me; and I walked away, 
thinking I ought to do something for the struggling 
family. It was easy for me to find some post for the 
man which, while requiring no hard work at his hands, 
would keep them all In comfort. I certainly would see 
to It, but was called away on business; other things oc- 
cupied my mind, and I forgot all about It. I did re- 
member it again after a while, but then It was too late. 
The man had succumbed — the family was ruined. 


122 


A MESSAGE 


But there are worse furies than these persecuting 
souls in torment. I cannot tell whether it is by imagi- 
nation only, assisting what, for want of a better word, I 
must call the jugglery of hell, or whether this place of 
damnation has its own actual second sight, but it is a 
fact that sometimes I can see the entire growth of evil, 
spreading over years perhaps, and involving soul after 
soul, originating in some careless word of mine which 
proved to be the seed. I turn away; but I am driven to 
look again and again at the terrible consequences, and 
words cannot express what I feel. 

It is appalling to think of the endless chain of sin and 
misery to which a single act, ay, a word even, may give 
rise. A chain, I say, for it is a frightful truth that the 
evil effect does not always spring from the seed as a 
single stupendous birth, to live and die for itself; but 
there is a demon power inherent in it of begetting and 
conceiving, wrong bringing forth wrong in endless suc- 
cession. It is by its consequences, its capability of en- 
gulfing others, that the worst potency of sin becomes 
apparent. 

It is of direct evil example, too, I would speak; how 
fearful is its power ^ — how far-reaching its influence! 
Whatever wickedness a man may commit in the world, 
what is it as compared with the wrong he may be guilty 
of by his example ? Then sin is as a mountain torrent, 
bursting its banks and carrying the unwary headlong to 
destruction. You may be dead yourself, yet your sin 
may live, yielding a terrible harvest. 

It was true in all things that faint heart never won 
did its worst; I went my sinful course, flinging evil seed 
about me, and stopped not to consider how many I 
might bring to ruin. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


123 

Do you understand? perhaps not fully. Let me re- 
turn to memories. 

I happened once to spend an evening with some 
dozen youths gathered for social intercourse. I was 
much older, and it was quite by accident that I found 
myself among them; but, enjoying the reputation of 
a boon companion, they entreated me to remain. It 
flattered me and I stayed. They evidently looked to 
me for information, which made me all the more will- 
ing to show off my superior experience. Being a witty 
talker, I added not a little to the evening’s enjoyment. ^ 
_ We made little speeches, sang, and drank to each other. 
Now I knew that these young people would take as 
gospel truth almost anything I might tell them, be- 
p lieving any w’orldl}^ wisdom I might point to as the 
1 road to success. The concluding word was given to 
i me. I rose, ready to give them the benefit of my 
[1 knowdedge. “ Dare to be happy ! ” was the motto I 
jf chose. I reminded them of the position I enjoyed in 
'4' the world, averring that my life was brimful of satis- 
faction; that I had always had whatever man could 
I wish for, and that I had had it because I had dared. 

{ It was true in all things that faint heart never won 
1 "' fair lady; there was a treasure of wisdom in these words 
> beyond the treasures of Solomon. They were just en- 
tering upon life. I could give them no better advice to 
go by — no better aim to follow — than was expressed 
I ' by these words : “ Dare it — dare be happy ! ” 

; They thanked me with cheers of enthusiasm. They 
I Avere flushed with wine, but another spirit than that of 
wine lay hidden in my words; its subtle influence was 
j even then upon them, intoxicating their souls. With 
I some of them its fumes, no doubt, passed away with 
the fumes of the liquor; but with others — three or 


A MESSAGE 


124 

four of them — the false maxim had caught; they went 
out into opening life armed with a rule which consisted 
of falsehood mostly, and a particle of truth. It took 
them to the broad way, and not only them, but others 
through them. That lying principle, which sounded so 
grand and true, spread in widening circles, ruining soul 
after soul; it is still spreading, alas! and I see no end to 
the pernicious influence. 

There is another recollection burning as molten lead 
upon my soul. I had been visiting friends in the coun- 
try, and was on the point of leaving to return to town. 
The carriage was at the door, and I downstairs al- 
ready, when I remembered having forgotten something 
in my room. I bounced up the stairs and came upon 
a little housemaid tidying the apartment. She was 
young and beautiful as Hebe; barely eighteen she 
looked. I took her into my arms and kissed her. She 
tore herself away, the flushes of shame in her face, cry- 
ing: “I am a poor girl, sir, but I am honest!” 
“ Poor, my child?” I said. ‘‘With a face and figure 
like yours one is never poor; you might buy the heart 
of a millionaire ! Beauty is a wealth of capital if well 
laid out.” 

They were the words of the moment — one of those 
silly speeches which fast men abound in. 

The girl was silent, blushing still; but I continued: 

“ And now, my fair one, you shall give me another 
kiss, of your own free will, to reward me for the useful 
lesson I have taught you. I dare say we shall never 
meet again.” 

She still resisted. But I was young a»nd handsome, 
and thoroughly versed in the arts of persuasion. I 
presently held her in my arms again, and she did kiss 
me. Then I heard the horses pawing, and there was 


• ■ ’ S ^ •- k ■ •' •' ’V:'. 












{? . ^ 


>^^ /■ . im zT- . i . -" 





- ; >j 


• i* 

, 1 -^- ■ 


' ■*» 

•» ' 4 

k. 


h’ 5 Mf:.*- . 




w 


■.^af.’tt,*".^'-.C^-, f\iv-' '‘- '"■' .r. NiJ.'/ vfl 






• •"!..; ■•['■r s ,. r,.. 

-* ■ni. r-'*: 


■■ 

*t rwv. , ^ ^ 

I T ■ i-i ‘ <* f 


■“ 7 jJt ^ ■ - f ’rwi’. *' 1 .- '• 4 L- 

^ ' ‘ ■Ku’-^'"^ • '1 r* * ' r iiifcV.-^^ ■ ^ ’ 'Afc. ■ V • ■'^■- •*?■'■ 



r 


i k 1 ' 

T>V 















»«».-•« .‘'I 

C ?4 




-=*. 1 > ' 








* .V 


' *.. -. ><• 

■ -r. 

V' * -x- - - ^ r' ■ * 

v‘ . ■ 0 ■ „ 'I 




I 


■ifr 'J‘',r - I. ■ t. 

*‘P 6 ••*. ^ . - A • * • ‘ ^ i 

t;-.: " ■ y'.* 

'<tKU C^^klir'! > 



S ,ry 


ku£. 



It 





A<’ 







I SAW NO PARTICULAR HARM IN WHAT I HAD DONE 

J 



FROM A LOST SOUL 127 

the train to be caught. So I loosened my hold, and as 
though beauty were indeed the capital I had spoken of, 
bringing riches to the owner, I put a sovereign into her 
hand. 

I saw no particular harm in what I had done. 
Thousands in my place, no doubt, would have said and 
done as I did. But in truth I was guilty of an awful 
thing! I had poisoned the very life-blood of the girl. 
Her innocence was gone; corruption had taken root in 
her soul. My spirit somehow has a knowledge of her 
future career. She had been engaged to an honest 
working man; but her beauty, if she married him, 
would not bear the interest she now coveted, so she 
broke with him. He had loved her, and hardly, if 
ever, got over the blow. She went her way putting 
out her capital, laying traps to the right and to the 
left; but cleverly as she laid them, she after all was 
jlta caught herself, falling a victim where she had hoped to 
ipconquer, and was flung aside again. She was ruined, 
n| but the horrible lesson I had left with her was nowise 
rendered harmless; on the contrary, she improved it all 
the more. As a courtesan she continued her career, 
and soon there was none more knowing, none more 
dangerous, than she. One fool after another went the 
way to her house to his soul’s ruin, and her capital laid 
out bore interest vastly, being the fruit of that first 
sovereign I had given her! But rich she grew not; 
i the money went as it came, squandered recklessly. And 
! before she dreamt of it, the capital itself was gone; 
she struggled awhile, sinking deeper and deeper, and 
died in utter misery. But even that is not all. The 
i lesson I had taught her proved not only a poison to her- 
I self, but with it she poisoned others, teaching scores of 


128 A MESSAGE 

girls the pernicious lie: Beauty is a capital; lay it out! 
lay it out! 

Thus it went with her with whom in life I had but 
a moment’s intercourse, whose name even I never knew ! 
What shall I say then of many others; what of Annie, 
against whom I sinned far more grievously? Strange 
that the spirit knowledge, which tells me so much, is 
entirely at fault whenever I think of her. But it is a 
blessing! What if she too were to rise before me cry- 
ing : Thou didst it ! thou didst it ! 

The force of example — I repeat it — is terrible, ter- 
rible ! and the responsibility of all, therefore, is it great 
with whom influence rests in a special way, as it does 
with those, for instance, to whom the young are taught 
to look. That is why there are so many here who had 
charge of children — parents, guardians, teachers, 
nurses innumerable. They go to hell first, of course 
they should have taught the way of life. And not only 
they do ; but they are followed by many of those whom 
are they followed by them, but by their children after 
them, generation rising against generation in awful ac- 
cusation. I am one of the worst of those who dare not 
lift their head! so I may well speak in warning! I 
know what awaits me. I am thinking of Martin. 
Poor boy, it was I who brought him up, feeding him 
upon evil example. I have made him what he is. But 
what has become of him, and what will become of his 
children? I had no family in life — alas, I may have 
one in hell, larger than I care to see — the children of 
my iniquity ! But there is hope for Martin ; he is yet in 
life. May the Lord have mercy on him — on him and 
his ! 

Hpw I loved him in spite of his waywardness ! Per- 
haps it was self-love after all; perhaps I loved him only 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


inasmuch as he seemed to reflect myself. Yet there 
was power in that love, in spite of supervening jeal- 
ousy. He grew more handsome, more taking than even 
I had been; ousting me by degrees out of my every 
pride; but jealous though I felt, I yet loved him. And 
the time came when he was master. I remember well 
how one day I was humbled by the sudden conscious- 
ness of it. I had been specially careful of his bodily 
development, seeing to it myself; his mental training I 
left to others. I taught him gymnastics and all sorts 
of manly exercises, in which I excelled — fencing, wrest- 
ling, and the like. He was tall and powerful, and ex- 
quisitely proportioned. Barely twenty, he resembled 
some athlete of antiquity. We practiced daily, and I 
found that he gained as steadily as I lost; there was a 
time at last when with difficulty I could hold my own. 
And then it came — I could never speak of it calmly — 
that he floored me, standing over me, a very Hercules 
of strength. From that day I knew that he had the 
ascendency over me. It was natural, for I had passed 
the zenith — he was approaching it; but it was morti- 
fying, and I could not forgive it. And yet, with strange 
inconsistency, I was proud of him, loving him all the 
more fondly. 

My grudge against him, however, took a more real 
turn when I found that he outdid me in the favor of 
woman as well. That was more than even my fondest 
love could stand. 

Will he join me here? The beating of my heart 
seems to say yes; for he belongs to me, and I am here. 
Then I shall find an answer to that burning question 
which filled my soul as I quitted life, and which burns 
with a fire of its own here amid many fires. But ought 
I to wish for an answer? I have a frightful forebod- 


130 A MESSAGE 

ing at times that the answer my soul is craving will over- 
whelm me with horror. But, nevertheless, and though 
it should be all horrors combined in one, I am hunger- 
ing and thirsting for it, nor can I rest till I find it. 
What is it he had to tell me? 


LETTER IX. 


[ How frightful is the deep stillness reigning in hell 
' among these myriads of souls ! I thought at first I 
should get used to it; but there is no getting used to 
: it. It is stifling and oppressive. What a contrast with 
the multifarious hubbub of earth ! Life may be ever so 
j excited here, ever so restless, it is dead to the ear. I do 
not mean to say that words passing to and fro are dc- 
i void of sound, but it is unearthly, unclothed of its body, 
y falling dead on the spot; I suspect that, like most things 
\ here, it is imaginary, unreal. Probably the meaning 
T of anything that is said passes to the hearer without the 
,X medium of sound; he seems to hear with outward ears, 

7'' but that is illusion. 

^ Hell is filled with unruly souls. It is the hurly-burly 

I of existence they need, but with all their effort they 
can never create sound. If never before they longed 
for a dull repose they do so now, yet are keenly alive 
to its utter hopelessness. They will hunt for tumult to 
all eternity, never hearing the sound they crave: they 
also have their reward. 

As light increases, so does the uneasy expectation 
^ of my heart. I tremble for the hour when the glory 
i from the other side will flash across the gulf and strike j 
1 my blinded eyes. I shall have to see it ! And Para- 
I dise, as seen from hell, must be a sight most dread — 
j most terrible — piercing the heart. Yet I long for it — 

I I groan for it — though the glimpse of bliss be fraught 
with exquisite torment; I hunger for it — “Let me 
have it,” I cry, “ though it should kill my soul.” 

131 


A MESSAGE 


132 


i 


Was not there something in the vanished time that 
was called the Lord’s Prayer, beginning, “ Our Father,” 
a well of blessing to those who opened their hearts to 
it? Surely I seem to remember, but vainly I try to 
call back the words; they seem hovering about me as 
though I need but say, “ Our Father,” and all the 
rest must follow. I try and say so, but never get be- 
yond; I have sometimes repeated these two words ten, 
twenty times, but it is quite hopeless — they are empty 
and meaningless; I have lost the prayer — it is all noth- 
ing to me. I just remember that there is a Father; but 
He is not my Father, and I am not His child. Yet 
I cannot refrain from racking my spirit for the once 
blessed words ; surely they are somewhere — some- 
where ! My soul is thirsting, and there is not a drop of 
water to cool my tongue. 

I return to the horror of existence. It is a mercy that 
after all one can choose one’s society here; I should 
die if I were obliged to know all the vulgar rabble of 
common ruffians, thieves, murderers, card-sharpers, and 
the like. I have always been a gentleman. Of course 
I am aware now that I am not one whit better than 
those that I call the rabble, — the only difference consist- 
ing in a little outward finish, what we used to call cul- 
ture on earth; and to be sure how proud we were of 
it! Our wickedness may be as great, if not greater 
than theirs; but it is not so coarse, there is a certain 
refinement about it, which flatters our notions of su- 
periority. I consider myself a gentleman, therefore, 
as I always did, and am very careful with whom 1 , 
associate. The rabble consists of the vulgar criminals 
and their belongings; but hell’s upper ten thousand have ’ 
never soiled their hands with low wickedness. We ■ 
grew rich upon the spoils of others, and called it busi- , 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


133 

ness; we were proud, hard-hearted, and spoke of the 
claims of rank; we may have been liars and cheats, but 
always wore kid-gloves and were careful as to our 
tailor — we were gentlefolk, you see. The proverb 
“ birds of a feather ” is written up everywhere in hell, 
— we follow it out naturally ; people here have an ex- 
quisitely developed instinct that helps them to judge 
in a moment of those they meet, aided — I should 
add — by the transparency of clothes. It is of course 
not quite easy here to carry out such principles, still so- 
ciety manages very generally to keep itself to itself. 
We eschew vulgarity and turn our back upon anything 
likely to shock our notions of good-breeding. 

I met a charming young woman the other day who 
was received in the best circles here. Her history was 
known, but it did not seem to shut her out from us. 
She had forsaken her widowed mother, nearly blind 
though she was, eloping with a handsome actor. She 
died suddenly, carried off in the height of passion, and 
veiy naturally found herself in hell. A prey to the 
cold which we all experience, she was afire with a cease- 
less longing for her mother on the one hand, whom 
she never will meet again, and for her lover on the 
other hand, whom she awaited with ardent desire. She 
ought not to have wished for a reunion, since that meant 
dragging him to hell; but her love being what it was, 
she lived and breathed in that cruel hope. She selfishly 
longed for him, saying they had sworn to live and die 
together. But he could not have been equally anxious ; 
at any rate he kept her waiting years upon years. 
And during all this time her infatuated soul beheld 
him as she had known him last, handsome, in the prime 
of life, and the darling of the people. At length he 
arrives — a decrepit man on crutches, blear-eyed, and 


A MESSAGE 


134 

a face that told his life. What a meeting ! — she starts 
back as from an apparition. Can that be the lover of 
her youth, for whom she sinned, for whom she suf- 
fered ! She loathes him, but she is driven to pursue 
him. Society here is well-bred, and shrinks from what 
ruffles its feelings. She was a charming creature, but 
we could no longer tolerate her. One after another 
we disowned her, and she disappeared with her former 
lover. 

Let me add that one of the greatest evils in the 
world is a superabundance of love. Who would be- 
lieve that love unrestrained sends more souls to hell than 
almost anything I could name? It is not the love 
which is pure and health-giving, for it is not fed by the 
Love Divine and Eternal. So much depends on what 
one loves and how one loves ! 

A woman arrived here some time ago, no longer 
young, but still beautiful, blue-eyed, fair-haired, and 
we all thought her charming. She was amiability it- 
self; we could not think what brought her to hell; in- 
deed there was no reason for it, but her unchastened 
love for her husband. It was quite touching to hear 
how she had given up her life to him, loving him a great 
deal more than he really deserved. She idolized him, 
forgetting everything for him, even her God. That 
was just it; she had given to her husband the heart’s 
adoration which belongs to God alone. How could she 
have been happy in heaven? But her love, touching as 
at first sight it would appear, was after all nothing but 
a peculiar development of selfishness, and that is why it 
dragged her to hell. 

And in hell she continues sick of love for her hus- 
band; it was the one longing of her life, so it needs must 
be the all-absorbing torment of hell. And she had her 


FROM A LOST SOUL 135 

desire, she saw him again; he arrived one day — with 
a heart full of another passion. He had never been 
faithful to her. Even hell pities the reward that is 
given her. 

You have long ceased to doubt, I hope, that hell of- 
fers anything but horror. But there are moments, at 
rare intervals only, when all the thousand horrors within 
us seem congealed into one frightful sensation of stu- 
por. Do not imagine it is a painless moment; feeling is 
swallowed up in indescribable anguish, a peculiar hor- 
ror, not known at other times. And then — it is al- 
ways sudden — hell stands aghast, trembling with 
dread. All pursuit ceases; every soul is left to itself, 
shuddering. Something is upon us — a spirit-deaden- 
ing influence. It is not seen, but we are, each and all, 
aware of its indescribable terror. We know what it 
is; we stand tongue-tied and trembling. Satan has 
come to survey the souls in hell. Final power is not 
yet given him; for they are not yet judged. But he has 
learned to wait — satisfied, meanwhile, that they are 
added to daily. They are his, he knows, though the 
time of carrying them off is delayed. He knows the 
doom is coming when the wicked, for ever separated 
from the good, are assigned their place on the left of the 
Son of Man, and that they will be his then for ever and 
for ever. 

How often in the young days of life I seemed full 
of promise to become good, but never reached the true 
1 aim of Christianity. The memories I have brought 
! away of these half-strivings are fraught with bitterest 
I regret, and yet they would move my tenderest tears,^ — 
if tears were left. It was Lily especially who in those 
!| days was the instrument of grace divine. From the 


A MESSAGE 


136 

first it was given her, that wondrous power over me. 

Ah ! say not it was all sinful that brought me to her 
feet! No; there was something higher, far higher, giv- 
ing her an influence over my soul — a holy influence. 

All children I believe have something of it; but Lily was 
filled with that heavenly grace. 

In winter-time, after dinner, we would rest awhile in 
the dusk, the firelight casting slumbrous shadows about 
the room. My mother would doze away; Lily and I 
sat dreaming. But how different were the spheres to 
which our thoughts would roam ! I could have spent 
hours watching Lily as I did; she sitting on a low fen- 
der-stool, the light falling on her. I was in the dark, 
unnoticed by her, which added to my sense of enjoy- 
ment. She would fold her hands on her knees, as she 
loved to do in thoughtful moments. LIow beautiful she 
was, in that half-light especially — a little pale, but 
spiritualized. The red glow was reflected in her won- 
derful eyes, which shone marvellously. Her features • 
seemed transfigured; she would sigh at times or heave \ 
a deep breath; I knew then that she was occupied 
in her mind. I watched her, greedily delighting in her ; 
perfect beauty. If there is truth in what people 
say of magnetism and sympathetic attraction, she must 
have felt my gaze. Who can tell? She sometimes 
really appeared uneasy; I saw from my corner how j 
she would try to shake off some unconscious influence. 

I could scarcely refrain then from snatching her up and . 
pressing her to my heart. But I conquered the desire 
— it would have broken the charm. 

But sometimes Lily would sit down by me, and then 
we passed the twilight in pleasant talk; she never denied \ 
me her confidence. One evening I asked her what she 


FROM A LOST SOUL 137 

was thinking of in those quiet moments on the fender- 
stool. 

“What I am thinking of?” she repeated, with her 
gentle voice. “ Ah, Philip, thoughts will come to me 
full of longing, sometimes happy, sometimes sad. I 
fancy myself carried away at times right over the seas 
to another land; even to other worlds by thought will 
rise — up, up — beyond the stars. I seem carried 
away to Louisiana, that beautiful country, where every- 
thing is so different from here — richer, grander by far, 
and where winter is not known. By the great river I 
see a house with a shady veranda and a pillared hall; 
trees of the south grow about it luxuriantly. Here I 
was born; my earliest recollections twine around it. 
Memory carries me now through the lofty rooms. I 
flit from one chamber to another; my poor parents are 
nowhere. I roam through the garden, so rich in de- 
light, through the cool groves by the river; but I am 
a stranger everywhere, — no one remembers the little 
girl. I see black men and stop to speak to them, but 
they only shake their heads mournfully. 

Sadly I quit my beautiful home — home no longer 
to me, and the spirit carries me back over the lonely 
sea. Restless I seem to wander, passing many lands, 
seeing many things, meeting with kind people every- 
where — but one thing I find not. And then I rise, 
beyond the clouds, beyond moon and stars. I seem 
to lose myself — thoughts vanish. I am at rest in a 
beautiful garden. 

“ I had believed nothing could be more beautiful than 
Louisiana, my own lovely home, but that garden is bet- 
ter still; for it is the garden of God — it is Paradise. 
And here I find them at last — my own dear parents; 
I knew I should find them again. And here there is 
9 


A MESSAGE 


138 

rest for my soul — nothing left to long for. I have 
my father again, my mother again; they tell me how 
happy they are, and how they love me.” 

“ Lily’s eyes were shining as with the light of the 
Paradise she was speaking of; she sighed, and then con- 
tinued slowly: 

“ I am happy, too, for a moment; but then the ser- 
vant comes in with the lamp, and with a sudden pain 
at the heart, I seem to be thrust down from heaven. I 
look about me bewildered, scarcely knowing where I 
am — I feel lonely and sad. Can you understand it, 
Philip?” 

Of course I understood her; they were foolish 
dreams, and would make her ill. These twilight 
roamings ought not to be indulged in. But I did not 
say so. 

One evening she asked me suddenly: “ Philip, what 
makes people happy?” 

Her question startled me, but I was not at a loss for 
an answer. 

“ I suppose their own heart,” I said; “ good health, 
too, and a pleasant home, where nothing is wanting to 
make one comfortable; a few kind people also to love 
one, I should say.” 

“ Well, I think I have all that. Am I happy? ” 

“ Are you not, sweetest Lily? ” I returned. 

“ I don’t know,” she said slowly. “ Something 
seems wanting. I cannot quite express it. . . . No 
one seems to need me in the world to make them happy 
— I am of no use to any one.” 

“ You should not talk so, Lily! Are you not moth- 
er’s delight, and my own? I am sure we need you. 
And you are of great use too 1 But why should a little 
girl like you be grieving about not being useful? You 


FROM A LOST SOUL 139 

have nothing to do as yet but be happy yourself, learn 
your lessons like a good child, and grow up as fast as 
you can into a nice little woman that will be a blessing 
to those who love her. But surely, Lily, you do not 
doubt that even now you make mother happy, and me 
too?” 

“ But you could do without me. And there are so 
many who — — ” 

“ No, Lily; I do not think we should like to do with- 
out you. One is always glad of having some one to 
love.” 

Lily shook her head. 

I am nothing to you and her, Philip. She is your 
own mother, and you are her son. But what am I? 
I do not even belong to you. You found me and were 
kind to me.” 

“What you are, Lily? Why, if you are nothing 
else, you are my dear little friend, whom I would not 
lose for all the world.” 

“A friend? Is that something?” she said dream- 

“Yes, a great deal!” I said. “A friend like you 
is a loving little girl who is ready to give not only 
her whole heart, but just her own self to him who 
loves her; she will smooth away his grief if he has 
any, and return his smiles. The little friend I want 
you to be is the greatest treasure to be found in life.” 

She looked at me wonderingly. “ I do not under- 
stand you,” she said. 

“ Well, you need not understand now. The time 
will come when it will be all plain to you. But you 
might promise me one thing, even now — will you be 
my little friend? ” 


A MESSAGE 


140 

She hesitated a moment; then, lifting her wondrous 
eyes straight to mine, she said candidly: 

“ Yes, dear, I will. It is nice to be something! 

“ You are my all, Lily, if only you knew.” 

But from that moment a pleasant consciousness hov- 
ered between us. Often when I met her, or took leave 
to go to town, I whispered: “ Sweet little Lily friend.” 
And she smiled her own angel smile, saying: “Yes, 
dear, it is nice to be somebody’s friend.” 

Ah, I love the memory of those twilight hours when 
she sat by me, and I could stroke her silky hair or 
hold her soft little hand in mine ! But even close to 
me she would sink away into her dreams of home and 
Paradise, and I felt something like jealousy at having 
no part in these dreams. 

One evening — how strange is the power of memory ! 
I remember every word, every look even — we had 
been talking awhile, and I asked her: “ But tell me, do 
you care for me, really?” 

“How should I not, Philip? I have neither father 
nor mother; no one cares for me but aunt and yourself. 
Of course I must love you for it.” 

“ I know, Lily. But I mean, could you love me 
even more? ” 

“ I think so,” she said meditatively. 

She was then about twelve. At that age words fall 
from the lips easily. And Lily had a childlike and 
wonderfully spontaneous manner of uttering her 
thoughts; yet in conversation with her elders there was 
a marked difference between her and other children. 
Her words showed that she thought deeply, and the 
confidence with which she spoke could not but impress 
one’s heart. 

“ I think so,” she repeated, and sat thoughtful. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 141 

“ What could I do to make you love me even 
more? ” 

“ There is one thing you could do, Philip. I am 
an orphan child, having neither father nor mother. 
But I have learned from the W^ord of God that of 
brothers and sisters I have many — many. I know it, 
but I do not know them ; I cannot go in search of them. 
I am only a little girl who is a stranger to the world, 
and it is not much I can do. But you, Philip, you are 
a man; you are clever and rich, and you go about 
among the people. Will you promise me one thing? 
Whenever you meet any of my poor brothers and sis- 
ters who are in want, will you be good to them, pitying 
them for God’s sake and for my sake? Or if you will 
be really kind, will you try and find them out and take 
me with you, that together we may comfort them and 
help them ? Will you promise me ? Say yes, and you 
shall be the very dearest friend I have.” 

I felt the tears rise to my eyes; I could not answer 
at once, but after awhile I said: 

“ If I do as you wish me, Lily, will you be sure to 
love me always — always? ” 

“ Oh, yes, dear; I cannot tell you how much! ” 

“ Well, then, I promise you faithfully that I will 
do it. But cheer up now, my good, kind-hearted little 
sister; you must not be always thinking of things that 
make you sad. There, look at me, and let me see how 
brightly you can smile.” 

And she did look at me, and smiled as no doubt 
angels smile whose measure of happiness runneth over. 

Do you not see that Lily had power over me — 
that I was almost becoming good, guided by that little 
hand of hers? If it was but miserable selfishness at 
first which brought me under her spell, it could not 


A MESSAGE 


142 

lessen the fact that I felt and even yielded to the 
breath of the Spirit moving in that holy child-soul. The 
influence for good that may proceed even from a little 
child on earth is very marvellous. 

I did begin to look about for Lily’s suffering brothers 
and sisters. It did not cost me any great effort to do 
deeds of charity, for I was disposed to be good-natured ; 
and for Lily’s sake I took even a pleasure now in doing 
kind things. 

Again, meeting in the dusk of the evening, I would 
tell her how I had succeeded here and there in making 
some poor creature happy. I described to her the 
misery in which I found this or that family, the way 
in which I assisted them; 1 told her of their joy and 
gratitude. And she listened with radiant face. Some- 
times I took her with me, and it was my delight on 
such occasions to let her have all the planning and giv- 
ing. It was strange how her sympathy would always 
hit upon the right thing ! 

But — alas that I must say it ! — in reality I was far 
from being a new creature. Lily had power to touch 
my heart; but the flesh was strong, and the world held 
me fast. My goodness, at most, was a mere playing 
at being good. 

When we separated, I going to South America, I 
continued for her sake to help the poor and suffering 
I fell in with. But my deeds of charity were no more 
than a kind of idol-worship of the memories I loved, 
of the hopes I revelled in to possess her more fully 
some day who was mine already. Besides, if I had 
not carried out her wishes, I could not have written her 
the letters I knew she looked for; knowing, moreover, 
that she loved me afresh for every deed of kindness 
I could tell her of. It was deceiving her, — deceiving 


FROM A LOST SOUL 143 

myself, perhaps, — but there was no deceiving the 
righteous Judge. 

I found Lily In tears one day. She sat In silence 
with folded hands, one big tear after another trickling 
down on a book before her. It was her Bible. 

“What Is It, my child?” I cried. “Why are you 
troubled? ” 

She looked at me with her dovelike eyes, the tears 
trembling In them. “ I am not troubled, dear,” she 
said. 

“ But you are crying.” 

“ For joy — yes, for joy. Look what I found!” 

Her finger pointed to her Bible, and bending over 
her, I read: 

“ When my father and mother forsake me, then the 
Lord will take me up.” 

I did not know at once what to say. It touched 
me, but at the same time I rather grudged her needing 
her Bible for comfort, and missing her parents so much. 
She had mother and me, and I wanted her to be happy. 
But I could not tell her, so I said after a while : 

“ Yes, that is beautiful, Lily, — just as though it were 
specially written for you. But brighten up now; I 
cannot have you cry, not even for joy, as you say. I’ll 
be back in a quarter of an hour, and then we will have 
a walk.” 

When I returned an expression of quiet peace had 
settled on her face, not unusual with her; but from 
that day the words, “ The Lord will take me up ” 
seemed continuously present in her heart. She did not 
hide it. I could not shake off those words all at once, 
but did so after a while. 


LETTER X. 


Amusement! That is one of the common needs now- 
adays; the world requires to be amused — rich and 
poor alike. I do not say that, in itself, this is alto- 
gether blameworthy ; it would be foolish to let the river 
of delight flow past, and never stoop to drink. But to 
make amusement the one question paramount when life 
is so serious, when neighbors are in trouble, and the 
poor in want — that surely is wrong. And yet that 
seems just what the world has come to. How shall 
we amuse ourselves ? ” appears to be the great question 
nowadays, the solving of which, for thousands of men 
and women, seems to be the very object of living. They 
do not consider it necessary to be praying for daily 
bread, or return thanks when they have got it; but they 
never forget to cry out for amusement. And even the 
poor, with whom daily bread is a question, whose young 
may be hungry, and their aged be buried by the par- 
ish, must needs be amused 1 

It was not so always. In years gone the mass of 
the people were satisfied with doing their work and 
looking upon pleasure as a relaxation merely; but now 
amusement with many has come to be the thing to be 
worked and lived for. And acknowledging this to 
be a fact, history holds up an appalling precedent. 
When ancient Rome made pleasure the aim of life, the 
nation was approaching its doom. How shall it be with 
the world? I do not know when its end may be, but 
I know this — that those of her children who run reck- 
lessly after pleasure are on the broad way that leads 

144 


FROM A LOST SOUL 145 

to hell; and the excess which is their sin on earth will 
be their punishment here. Is the world rich in places 
of amusement? — be sure so is hell. We too have our 
gardens, our Tivoli — call it Vauxhall, or Crystal Pal- 
ace, or Champs Elysees, it matters not, the thing is here. 
And whatever is being invented on pleasure-hunting 
earth, we have it to perfection. Does the world flock 
by thousands to its amusements? — hell does so by mil- 
lions. All pleasures, all passions, run loose here in aw- 
ful confusion, and helplessly you are whirled along. 
Yet no matter what excess there be of wanton gaiety, 
there broods over all that deathlike stillness — hell’s 
frightful atmosphere — which I have tried to describe 
before. Perhaps you remember the effect of sounds 
deadened by a muffling fog; that may give you a 
faint idea of what I cannot otherwise bring home to 
you. If one succeeds at times in breaking away 
from this horrible pretence of pleasure, it leaves one 
panting and spirit-broken, sick of existence and long- 
ing for rest; but despite the loathing one is immedi- 
ately after it again, forcing the senses to what never 
yields them a shadow of delight. Amusement here, 
let me tell you, is a very lash of correction, driving 
all thoughts of pleasure far, far away. Ah, how 
they long for work, those poor souls, to whom labor 
on earth was so hateful, or, at best, but a means toward 
enjoyment. How gladly they would even slave on a 
galley here, deeming the meanest work a blessing. But 
the night has come when no man can work. 

There is a memory in this realm of death of how 
the Son of God once descended to hell to preach to 
the spirits in prison, filling the space between the 
great deep and Paradise with the cry of His infinite 


A MESSAGE 


146 

love, and proclaiming liberty to the captives. Then 
hell for a time was light as day; but most of those 
present hardened their hearts, and fell back into dark- 
ness. 

I felt a burning desire to meet some one who had 
heard the voice of the Son of God, but I own it was 
a foolish wish, since it could do me no good — all being 
vanity now and nothingness; still, in spite of that 
knowledge, here one is always trying and longing for 
something. 

There are naturally many souls in hell who heard 
that wondrous preaching, but they are all lost; and 
lost souls cannot help one to a ray of light. Had 
they but remembered a single word of the Savior’s 
— laid it up in their hearts, I mean — they would not 
now be here. Some certainly pretend to recollect this 
or that, but what they said in answer to my inquiry 
was cant and blasphemy in their mouths; it gave me 
no comfort, and, despairingly, I turned from my de- 
sire. 

I lately ventured upon an expedition through some 
outlying districts; do not be surprised at my saying I 
ventured, for I assure you it needs courage here to 
get to know more than is absolutely thrust on your 
knowledge. Discovery is full of horror, even to him 
who has nothing to lose. 

Indeed, you must not ask me to describe to you 
all I saw and heard; it would take me too far, and 
it could not possibly interest you to hear all I might 
say concerning hell’s inhabitants; those crowds of 
thieves, murderers, deceivers, liars, misers, spendthrifts, 
perjurers, forgers, hypocrites, seducers, and slanderers. 
But stop ! — there are some I must tell you about. 
Look at that tribe of strutting turkeys in human guise 1 


FROM A LOST SOUL 147 

They are the self-conceited, a very refuse of hell; they 
thought well of themselves once, but are a laughing- 
stock now. 

And these miserable women flapping their arms 
wildly, and going about cluck-clucking like so many 
hens distressed for their brood, spreading wings of pity, 
but vainly seeking for aught to be gathered in! — they 
are the wicked mothers, groaning for the children they 
neglected in sloth or selfishness. 

And those queer creatures fawning about so meanly, 
slobbering all whom they meet with sympathy, offering 
assistance right and left ! — they are the merciless ones. 
Their hearts were too hard formerly: they are too soft 
now, and no one here requires their mercy. 

A few other figures I may single out. 

I have told you of the great black river here which 
is not Lethe. I was sitting one day near its bank, 
thinking of the sad past and sadder future; the turbid 
waves rolled heavily by. 

Groans broke upon the silence about me. I started 
and perceived'a strange figure, strangely occupied. It 
was a man of commanding aspect, handsome even, but 
in most painful plight. He sat by the river washing 
his hands, which dripped with blood. But for all his 
washing the dread crimson would not leave his fingers; 
as soon as he lifted them above the water, the red 
blood trickled down afresh. It was a pitiful sight. 

He seemed to be aware of my presence, for he turned 
upon me suddenly, saying, “What is truth?” I did 
not reply at once, feeling it to be a question that should 
not be answered lightly; but, raising his voice, he re- 
peated impatiently, “What is truth?” 

“ Well,” I said, “ it is a truth, and a sad one, that 
it is too late now for us to be seeking the truth.” 


A MESSAGE 


148 

This answer did not appear to satisfy him. He 
shook his head, turning away. And again he set to 
washing his hands. 

I endeavored to draw him into conversation. I 
seemed suddenly to know that he was one of those 
doubly miserable souls who had seen the Son of Man 
face to face and heard Him speak, and I was most 
anxious to hear what he might have to tell me; but 
there was no turning him from his frightful occupation. 

I left him after a while. Who he was I knew with- 
out the testimony of his purple-bordered toga and the 
ring on his finger — Pontius Pilate ! 

He shuns the city of the Jews, and spends his time 
by the river washing his hands. But of every passer-by 
he asks the question. What is truth? Whatever an- 
swer he receives he shakes his head: it is not general 
truths he wants to know about, but the Truth — truth 
absolute, and that is not known here. And do you 
perceive the cutting contrast? Pilate inquiring about 
truth, yet washing his hands in the river of falsehood ! 

I went my way through desert places — uncultivated 
tracts, that is, but nowise unpeopled; no spot in hell 
is uninhabited, however dismal and waste it may be. 
There are souls whom an inward necessity drives into 
the howling wilderness; those, for instance, who in life 
worked out dark plots ending in great crimes. These 
places are congenial to them. 

There is one terrible figure one meets at times in 
the dreariest wastes — a man tall and powerful, half- 
naked, the skin of some animal being all his clothing. 
The hair hangs wildly about his temples; there is a 
furtive look in his eye, and his brow is gloomy. There 
is a mark upon his forehead, and he carries a club; 
not that seems to require it, for he is a fugitive always. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 149 

in constant fear of being slain. Every one who meets 
him trembles, but he is afraid of the weakest and most 
helpless of creatures, fleeing them each and all for fear 
of his wretched life. Always alone, he seems nowhere 
and everywhere. A cursed fugitive he was on earth — 
a cursed fugitive he is in hell, for the Lord has set His 
mark upon him, that every one should know Cain and 
not slay him. 

I hurried away, anxious to get rid of the terrible 
sight. Here, then, I had found a soul that was more 
wretched than myself. But the thought was poor com- 
fort; I could not shake off the impression of the lying 
flattery with which they buried me. But I forget — 
I have not told you my first experience by that vile 
river. As I neared it I was met — would you believe 
it — by an account of my own obsequies. It was sick- 
ening ! A miserable versifier, lately come hither it 
seems, was hawking about his latest production. I do 
not know that he really knew me, but he insisted on 
flourishing a paper in my face, and I could not help 
reading with my own eyes the flaring title, to this 
effect : 

“ New and mournful ditty, in memory of Philip H., 
Esq., whose heirs could pay for the grandest funeral 
and the most flattering parson to escort him to heaven, 
but could not keep him out of hell. Leading senti- 
ment — his Reverence’s own — ‘We shall meet 
again ! ’ ” 

A funeral ditty In honor of me . . . staring me 

In the face by the river of lies ! . . . I bit my lips, 

for I needs must read It. 

It began with a panegyric on my many virtues, very 
few of which I really possessed; It next broke out into 
a doleful lamentation about the loss society had sus- 


A MESSAGE 


150 

tained by my untimely death, and ended with a de- 
scription of the blessed life I had entered upon to re- 
ceive the reward of my deeds, joy and glory unspeaka- 
ble, which henceforth were my blessed inheritance ! 
Terrible agony! 

I felt as though a hundred daggers had entered my 
soul. Sick at heart I crumpled up the wretched pro- 
duction and fled from the place. It was some time 
before I could get over the deep bitterness of this ex- 
perience, and when in a measure I had conquered it, 
that parson’s “ leading sentiment ” remained as a drop 
of rankling poison. Thou fool I — or hypocrite — 
which is it? As though a man had but to die to go 
straightway to bliss 1 I will not enlarge upon the hope- 
ful statement — you little dreamt of its possible mean- 
ing when you said, “ We shall meet again! ” 

It was about this time that I first came across a king 
in this place. Pitiful sight! It is scarcely possible to 
conceive a greater contrast between the once and the 
now — kingship on earth and kingship in hell ! 

Of all the abjects one meets with here, I do believe 
emperors, kings, and princes of every description are 
the poorest. There are no empires and kingdoms here, 
save indeed, Satan’s, and nothing deserving the appella- 
tion of government. What rules us is a kind of social 
instinct and the habits of life we brought with us from 
the world. So, you see, kings and princes are nowise 
needed. Their rank of course entitles them to respect, 
and as on earth so here, one bows involuntarily to their 
exalted position; but in truth they are too miserable to 
look for respect. It is with them as with the image 
of some castaway saint, the gilding of which has worn 
off, and which ends its days in the lumber-room, igno- 



\ M ^ • • ’• , 

^ * 


p t 


» ♦ i * : 

■' 

- .7 -M. 




m ■* 


S'* 


; 4 

m 

* v 



i 


'•i*. 

. ■ .- f ^ fT- -r. 



>'i ..:«, 


a "S vr* 

-"t \ ^ 


I f -m ■ y 

•' ^ I • I 

■ :; ••■ ■' 
" o.'-V^ ■ ^ 

±Jr ‘' ■ ■> . ■■ 



■ Af ' - 

■„ fcw:*-?-?? / 


^<; ;•■ .t: 

ji* ♦ A «n 

■■* 'A y*:,.: - M 

V ** *. L .«> / t ‘ 4 LlBi 

: st »*'•;•■-'■■■•, 1 *. *3 






^ ** -- - *'• i '■ * J . • 

W . ’ •L - M i_r- 

■A' .'•" '"v. ' “■ '■ 

iWra - ' ' A‘ ■- 

^ ■ ■:.? ■ ■■ ^ - ■ - - ^it,:- M J 

t^gji^:; -■ ’A .: 'W^4i ' •'■ ? 

V EHH ' ' ; 4^uvJM - ':> - 




:> 




a . , ..•.■iA'.o-.-i, .'Jl 

■^*s -“ • ' ' * ^-* j^jJM 





»• 








L 


i' V.-* 




SAD PRETENCE OF FORMER GRANDEUR 


FROM A LOST SOUL 153 

miniously forgotten. Their former greatness was 
merely conventional; it was gilding, in fact, and no real 
gold. It has worn off, and there is nothing left to 
bespeak their majesty. The poor kings have no king- 
dom here to display their greatness, no armies that will 
fight and die at their bidding, no millions to be squan- 
dered; they have nothing left but the sad pretence of 
former grandeur. Their courtly state is represented by 
a few wretched sycophants who stick to them, not for 
love but for gain illusive of course, and following for- 
mer habit merely. I said they are miserable, — meighed 
down would be a more descriptive word, and literally 
true, for they nearly sink beneath the burden of their 
crowns. Do you wish to know the possible weight of 
a crown ? I will meet you with another question : can 
you tell me how great a king’s responsibility may be on 
earth? They weigh tons these crowns, believe me. 
The poor kings, propped up as they are by ministers 
and satellites, can scarcely more than crawl here, so 
heavy is their burden. 

Worse off than any are those potentates whose names 
on earth boasted of the addition “the Great;” alas, 
those great ones are peculiarly small here, and those 
five letters add an enormous weight to their crowns ! 

Of truly great sovereigns, of course none arrive 
here, and those others whom the world called Great 
, received that appellation merely because they were 
i either great destroyers of human life, slaughtering the 
people by thousands for their own miserable renown, 
ij or perhaps because they outdid all other men and princes 
i! in that peculiar knavery which goes by the name of 
; state-craft. Some few also may have come by their dis- 
1 tinction quite by chance ; perhaps they had clever min- 
I; isters working for their glory. But these sometimes are 


A MESSAGE 


154 

the most conceited of all crown-bearers; nothing is left 
for them but to go to hell when they have done. 

What a gain it would have been for those poor 
potentates if, instead of striving for the appellation 
“ the Great,” they had been content to be called “ the 
Good,” or “the Beloved! ” Charity then, with them 
also, might have covered a multitude of sins. Now 
nothing is left but the wailing and gnashing of teeth. 

You never hear them speak; sighing and groan- 
ing seems to be their one means of intercourse. But 
no one cares to listen; indeed they are scarcely fit for 
society. The knowledge of this makes them shy and 
retiring; one hardly ever meets them; and if they do ' 
venture abroad, they are at once set upon as a hawk ] 
by innumerable sparrows — persecuted by all who suf- 
fered through them in life, as many as half a nation 
sometimes. ^ 

How enviable might have been their days on earth I 1 
Blessed beyond their fellows, all was theirs to make ; 
themselves and others happy; but ambition prevented } 
them from seeing that their crown might — ay, should j 
— be a well of blessing for the people. They were 1 
always speaking of their right divine, calling themselves j 
kings by the grace of God; they forgot that it would v 
have been far better to own themselves poor sinners 
through the grace of God than kings by right divine, 
and by that right be cast into hell. , 

I spoke of destroyers of human life, but one need 
not be a king or emperor for that; some of the most 
ruthless slaughterers of humanity the world has known 
were only generals, admirals, marshals, and the like. 

These also continue their career in hell — in vain ; 
endeavor. There are plenty here to flock to their 
standards — all those, namely, who on earth were for- 


FROM A LOST SOUL 155 

getful of the peace and goodwill which the God of love 
proclaimed to mankind. They meet here, hundreds of 
thousands of them, and, like so many grinning skeletons, 
at once prepare for battle. Vainest show! Their ar- 
tillery produces mere smoke. The spectre phalanx 
charges: one expects a great onslaught, but it is noth- 
ing; they merely change sides, as it were, and begin 
the battle afresh. They are unable to shed blood now, 
but they are for ever spending their soul’s energy in 
miserable bloodthirstiness. 

I thought of the warriors of Walhalla — foolish 
comparison ! for there is nothing in common between 
the heroes there and the would-be heroes here. The 
v/arriors of Walhalla are said to be resplendent with 
strength and glory, living not only a real but a per- 
fect life; whereas their wretched semblances here are 
only fit to move laughter and pity. 

You know that we are always suffering thirst — an 
agonizing, burning thirst — ever longing for a drop of 
water to cool the tongue. No one, one would imagine, 
would willingly come to try and slake his thirst with 
the stagnant water of the horrible river; nevertheless 
there are some who do try it, quite secretly though, as 
if that could be kept a secret! For their whole body 
swells and is puffed out wdth the slimy falsehood, which, 
breaking through their every pore, turns them into 
positive lepers of lying. Having drunk once they al- 
ways drink again, but their thirst is never quenched. 

As I am thinking of ending this letter, the shadow 
of a saying crosses my memory, that of good things 
there are always three. I forget which of earth’s 
tongues has molded this into a proverb, but something 
more than a proverb often troubles me now: I remem- 
10 


A MESSAGE 


156 

ber that I used to be taught to believe In the Trinity In 
Unity, but I never get beyond the two now — I know 
something of a Father, and something of a Savior; 
but was not there a third to help one to say our 
Father ” and my Savior? ” Alas the idea is a blank 
now, leaving a shadow to haunt me! 

There are other three I am vainly trying to recall 
to my heart — faith, hope, and charity. I know noth- 
ing of faith now, and nothing of hope. I might have 
known charity, and I once believed I knew love: but 
now, alas, I know only what it might, what it should 
have been? 

Oh that I could warn you who still walk in hope 1 
Love is no light thing, but the deepest outcome of the 
soul. Had I known it truly, faith and hope now would 
stand by my side. 

Be warned my brothers, my sisters ! My heart 
yearns for you; it yearns for thee, my silent friend, 
who never with a word even hast answered any of 
these letters; for thee, mother, who never understoodst 
my deepest need; for thee, Martin, who in just retribu- 
tion art as the lash now adding torment to torment. 
I love thee still, — what is it thou wouldst have told 
me? My heart is yearning, my brothers, my sisters; 
but vain, vain. Is the longing; It leaves me In hell! 


LETTER XL 


Would you believe it — not only my sins, but even 
the “ good deeds ” of my life come back to me in 
torment ! I can but add, it is very natural 1 For even 
our best actions are full of blemish. Every one of them 
leaves a sting behind, and if it did not prick conscience 
then, it has power to enter the soul now, wounding it 
deeply. 

There was a clerk in our counting-house, a young 
man, in whom I was interested. I trusted him entirely; 
he filled a responsible position, acting as cashier. Vari- 
ous little things coming under my notice, first caused 
me to doubt his honesty. I watched him, and discov- 
ered that he had contracted a habit of gambling. 
Chance offered me an opportunity of taking him in the 
act. 

He frequented a low gaming-house; I had been di- 
rected to the place. The adventure was not without 
risk to myself, but that was nothing to me. It was a 
wintry evening, dark and blustering, when, wrapped in 
an ordinary overcoat, I approached the apparently unin- 
habited house. In answer to a peculiar knock, how- 
ever, the door was opened, and having passed a low 
dark passage, I entered a well-lit room. I found a 
company of gamblers assembled, as numerous as varied, 
evidently enjoying themselves, though the place reeked 
with the fumes of tobacco and gin. Several tables were 
going, one of them was kept by my young scapegrace, 
who apparently enjoyed his dignity of banker. Acting 

157 


158 A MESSAGE 

on a sudden impulse, I faced him and staked a small 
sum. 

The sudden sight of me had a terrible effect on 
him. He grew ashy, and the cards fell from his hand. 
Having regained some self-command, he seemed about 
to rise, either to rush from the place or sink down at 
my feet. But a look from me was sufficient to rivet 
him to his seat. One of those present, perceiving his ^ 
confusion, handed him a glass of port; he seized it 
eagerly and drained it. His pallor yielded to a flush; } 
he looked me in the face. But coldly I disowned him j 
— standing before him as a stranger merely, who de- | 

sired the continuation of the game. So did the rest of ■ 

the company. None of them suspected the peculiar re- ^ 

lation between myself and the unfortunate croupier. I 
was determined the rascal should suffer; I compelled ’ 

him to play. With trembling hands, scarcely knowing I 

what he did, he dealt the cards, gave and received cash. 

The game went on, and as chance would have it, the 
youngster had all the luck. But I could abide a turn 
of the tide; I knew it would come, and presently I 
began to force the game. I could afford to play higher 
than any of them probably had ever done before. The 
excitement grew to intensity; with the croupier it ap- 
peared simply maddening; his eyes started from his 
head. Another stake, and I had broken the bank! 

With a yell of despair the unhappy youth sprang 
to his feet, and crying, “ All is lost 1 ” was about to 
rush past me and break from the place. “ Not all I ” 

I said under my breath, seizing hold of his arm; “ more 
still might be lost. Stop a minute ; we leave this house 
together ! ” 

He was obliged to take his hat and coat and follow 
me. The company stared of course, but all was done 


159 


FROM A LOST SOUL 

so quietly that none felt justified in demanding an ex- 
planation. 

I took him with me, walking by my side and 
trembling visibly. Not a word was spoken till we en- 
tered the library of my house. There I confronted 
him, and did not spare him. He who had been trusted 
beyond his age — trusted entirely — a gambler and a 
thief ! 

He stood before me crushed and overwhelmed with 
shame. He ceased praying for mercy for himself, but 
entreated me to spare his widowed mother, whose only 
stay he was. 

I did not relent so easily, although, considering that 
he had had a lesson, I determined to pardon him; but 
I was also determined that he should remember that 
night as long as he lived. 

In agony he lay at my feet when I promised mercy 
at last, saying I would keep the matter to myself, and 
allow him the opportunity of making up for his wrong; 
he might do so, and thank me for not ruining his pros- 
pects. 

He prepared to take his leave, and staggered to the 
door, scarcely able to stand on his feet. It had been 
too much for him. I saw I could not let him go, or his 
miserable secret would at once become known to his 
mother. I rang for my valet, and ordered him to give 
the young man a bed in my house. 

The following morning found him in delirium ; brain 
fever supervened. I thought of the poor widow, and 
how anxious he had been she should not know. I re- 
solved to keep his secret; the servant, I knew, could be 
trusted. So I wrote to his mother that I had been 
obliged to send him away on business suddenly; it would 


i6o A MESSAGE 

be a several weeks’ absence — meanwhile she might be 
at rest about him. 

Thus his fate, next to God, was left with me entirely. 
He was seriously ill; I had hirh nursed. conscientiously, 
dividing nearly all my time betv/een him and his mother. 
I really acted as a brother by him, as a son by her. 
When recovery had set in and he knew me again, I 
surrounded him with kindness, doing my utmost to 
bring him back to health and self-respect. 

Some six weeks elapsed before he could go back 
to his mother. She was told he had been ill on his 
journey. On a journey indeed he had been, returning 
from the very gates of death. His mother never 
learned the true cause of his absence. I placed him in 
another branch of the business; he rose by degrees, and 
I ever found him a faithful servant. 

Now to the point. You think perhaps that I had 
every reason for being thoroughly satisfied with myself 
for once. I should have thought so at the time ! But 
here, where the scales fall from one’s eyes, where every- 
thing appears in uncompromising nakedness, one learns 
to judge differently. 

There was no wrong in catching the bird by the 
wing as I did, and holding him tight till he dropped, 
thoroughly frightened. I had saved him from his sin. 
But looking back now I see that pride and self-conscious- 
ness guided my hand. Vanity was flattered by the 
moral ascendency I had over the youth; a look of mine 
had sufficed to force him to continue awhile in his wicked 
course, and then I could have staked my soul that he 
would not again touch a card to his dying day. I knew 
it, I mean, even at the moment, and felt elated by the 
knowledge. 

My subsequent kindness to him, I fear, sprang from 


FROM A LOST SOUL i6i 

a feeling that I had been hard on him. I had taken a 
cruel delight in his utter humiliation. What was left 
then, I ask, to make the deed a good one? Judge for 
yourself, my friend ! Humiliation is for me now — I 
feel it deeply whenever I think of his contrition and 
suffering. 

That night, in fact, left her traces on his life. The 
brightness was wiped out of it. He had been a light- 
hearted youth; he was a sad-browed man. A shy, al- 
most timorous look, witnessed to the memory of that 
occurrence, although it remained a secret between him 
and me. 

You see, then, that even our so-called good deeds 
may weigh on our souls: is it not terrible? But how 
little do they deserve to be called good, since few of 
them, I fear me, if thoroughly examined, will stand the 
test! Not that I would deny there being such things 
as good works; though, if viewed aright, what are they 
but the mere doing of our duty? How indeed could 
they be more, if we have the means and power of doing 
them I 

Was not there something we used to call the articles 
of belief? I have a faint recollection. Did they not 
refer to the mystery of the Trinity, and were they not, 
like the Lord’s Prayer, a support to Christian souls ? 

I have tried to remember them, driving the brain 
to the verge of madness; but I have given it up now. 
What would be the use if I could remember, if I could 
repeat those articles, and the whole of the catechism 
besides? It would be words — words only, as empty 
and hollow as evei 7 thing about me. It is faith only 
which could give them their time meaning. Faith ?^ — 
what is faith ? I know about it. I know that its ob- 


i 62 


A MESSAGE 


ject is the Son of God. The very devils know as much 
as that. I know that He is the Savior. But how He 
saves, and how a lost soul can come to have part in 
Him, woe is me, I cannot tell. 

I feel about faith as I do about repentance. I think 
if I could repent but for one short moment — repent 
truly — salvation would be mine. But vain is the try- 
ing, I cannot — cannot repent. At times I feel as if I 
were very near that blessed experience, as if my being 
would dissolve in tears, — ah vainest deception I “ Oh 
for a tear — a single tear! ” I keep sighing, “ Father 
of mercy,” — but what boots the prayer of anguish if 
barren of faith? — “Father of mercy, oh grant me a 
tear!” 

Time passes. Nay, this is nonsense, since there is 
no time here. Something, however, appears to pass; 
I infer that from the increasing glimmer of light. The 
blissful moment seems to be approaching when the glory 
of Paradise will swallow up the night of hell. But I 
speak of what I have not seen. It may be an awful mo- 
ment, sublime rather than blessed, and it may be in the 
distance of unmeasured ages. . . . 

Broad is the way which leads to destruction ; but how 
broad is not known till you see it from hell. 

Men find it a pleasant road; they go along dancing 
and singing, as it were, enjoying the moment, and 
never asking whether they give it to God or to the devil. 
They think of the future only as far as it may concern 
some pleasure they are anticipating, some ball or play 
perhaps, or even the new clothes they are going to wear. 
They call the hour of waiting an eternity, and know 
not the awful import of the word. “ We love to live,” 
they say; but death holds them in his embrace. Hol- 
bein’s well-known “ Dance of Death ” is more than a 


FROM A LOST SOUL 163 

picture, I assure you. They dance, they make love, 
they chatter, they eat and sleep through life. A sudden 
wrench — and lo, they wake in hell. 

There are others who grovel along that road. One 
would imagine them to find it irksome, but by no means. 
The mole in the ground is as satisfied in his way as 
the bird in the air. There are human moles. “ We 
lead steady lives,” they say, and grovel in the dust. 
“We have eyes to see,” — of course they have; it is 
but a myth which asserts that moles are blind. They 
have an eye, I assure you, for the smallest advantage 
they can pick up in their earthly course. Not that they 
look for the small gains merely; it is the great ones they 
like, and burrow for them assiduously. That is what 
they use their eyes for — to peer about in the dust; they 
never direct them heavenward. They do not seem 
aware even of the starry sky above the clods of earth. 
They spend their lives in trying to break those clods 
for something that may be within; and, grovelling 
along, they sooner or later come upon a hole in the 
ground. They did not look for it, and tumble in una- 
wares. Death has swallowed them up ; and, recovering 
from the fall, they find themselves in hell. 

It is truly to be marvelled at! All men know that 
their portion is to die, but few of them ever think of 
death, and fewer still prepare themselves for dying. 
Death comes to most men as an unexpected visitor who 
will take no denial, though one never made ready for 
him. What is there left for them but a terrible waking 
in hell 1 

It is so with most; and more marvelous still, as 
I have said already, one finds people here one would 
never have dared to look for. They had gained the 
veneration and love of the world, even of good people 


A MESSAGE 


164 

in the world; the tearful prayers of their friends 
went to heaven, mourning their death. But they had 
not gone to heaven; they are in hell; for God judges 
not with the eyes of men. They may have been excel- 
lent people and possessed of many a virtue, but they 
lacked one thing which alone avails in the end; they 
had not the heart of faith which yields itself to God 
entirely. They may have gained the whole world, but 
they lost their own soul. 

And again, there are others one most certainly ex- 
pected here who have never arrived. Their evil repu- 
tation, their works went before them, announcing them, 
as it were; but they are looked for in vain. There is 
only one way of accounting for this. Great sinners 
though they were, iniquitious and full of pollution, they 
must yet have come to that godly sorrow which worketh 
repentance to salvation. Perhaps at the very last the 
Savior stood up between them and hell, where their 
place seemed prepared for a certainty. 

You who had loved your dead and grieve for them 
tenderly — with trembling hearts and tearful voice I 
hear you ask: “ May we not go on loving them, helping 
them perhaps with our true heart’s prayers? ” 

I know not. Yet pray — pray with all your soul 
and without ceasing. One thing I am certain of, that 
the prayer of love is never vain; the tears of love can 
never be lost! For God is love, and His Son is the 
fulfilment of that love to all eternity. 

Looking backward and looking forward to me is 
fraught with equal pain. I see nothing before me but 
an endless existence which knows not of hope, while all ' 
behind me is wrapt in the wild regret of a life that is > 
lost. 

Hell yields a terrible knowledge — how blessedly 


FROM A LOST SOUL 165 

fruitful life might have been! Happy ye are whose 
life is still in your hands. While there is life there 
is hope^ — never was there a truer word. Do not, I 
beseech you, yield to the pernicious delusion that you 
have lost your opportunity — that it is too late I That 
lie has ruined more souls than all earth’s wickedness 
combined. It is not too late 1 And if death awaits 
you to-morrow, it is not too late! Your life, though 
even now it be running out its last grains of sand, may 
yet bring forth fruit — the blessed fruit of peace, of 
joy unspeakable; the crown of life may yet be yours. 

If you would but repent! Ah! turn, turn from 
your ways, and seek for peace where it is to be found ! 

Could I but let you see things as I see them, you 
would not despair ! Wretched, undone, and lost though 
you feel yourselves, you need not be hopeless. Despair 
has no right on earth — its true realm, alas, is here ! 
And here only it is ever too late. Do you not know 
that your life on earth is but a part, an infinitesimally 
small part of the existence given to you, and that little 
is lost even if all earthly hopes have failed? I need 
not have said all; for no man is left so entirely deso- 
late. Waste and ruined though life may appear to 
you, there is many a spot left where the waters of con- 
tent may spring — where joy even for you may be found 
to be growing, if you could but trust ! And the world 
is not all. Behold the stars, they are more than you 
could number. If the world indeed were lost and 
; earthly life a failure, what is it? There are other 
I worlds awaiting you, a better life is at hand. Look up, 
‘1 I say, and despair not! It is a lie if any one tells you 
j it is too late. It is not too late. You may yet be fully 
satisfied. This is a truth as unshakable as the existence 
j of God Himself. Repent thee, O man ! O woman ! and 


i66 


A MESSAGE 


turn from thy ways; turn to Him who can save thee, 
who will save thee ! However late it be, there is yet 
time for thee to begin a new life. But delay not — ah 
delay not to enter upon the happy road that may lead 
thee from star to star, even into realms of joy eternal. 
Delay not, I say; for if death surprise thee on the road 
of despair with sins unforgiven, heaven and all its stars 
will fade away in the night that evermore must enwrap 
thy soul. 

Again I say, it is not too late. Whatever be lost^ 
one thing is yet to be saved — thy hungering soul, her 
peace, and the life to come. 

Hast thou lost money and riches? — Thy soul is 
worth immeasurably more. 

Is thy past a failure, undoing even thy future? — 
Behold eternity, and work for that. 

Wast thou deceived in love? — Love will save thee 
at the last. 

Is thy life degraded? — Look upon Life exalted on 
the Cross. 

Has the world not satisfied thee?^ — There is heaven; 
try it! 

Have earth’s joys proved faithless? — There is an 
heritage to come I 

How little then is lost, even if it be thy all, and 
how much there remains to be gained? Take heart, 
I say, for verily it is not too late 1 There is yet time 
to begin a new, a holy, happy, and even joyful life 1 


I have seen her! It was as though death again 
had clutched me. Shaken to the depth of my soul, I . 
fell to the ground at the dread aspect, stricken with 
remorse. I saw her — her against whom I have sinned \ 


FROM A LOST SOUL 167 

so terribly that my own heart and conscience ever stand 
up to accuse me. 

I have never had courage to menton it to you, my 
once truest friend; but I have always had a frightful 
foreboding that, sooner or later, I should meet Annie 
in hell, whose life and soul I murdered. She is here, 
and I have seen her ! 

I was strolling about with an old acquaintance. “ Do 
you know Undine?” he said suddenly. “No,” I re- 
plied. “ There she is,” he continued, pointing towards 
a pond at some little distance. 

And I saw a youthful figure, dressed in the airiest 
of garments, and with dishevelled hair. Her light robe 
seemed to cling to her figure and to be dripping with 
water. She was trying, now to wring her wet clothes, 
now the heavy masses of her hair. She looked up. I 
stood trembling. It was Annie ! 

Annie indeed! The same lovely features, the same 
enchanting figure, and yet how changed — how terribly 
changed 1 The same features, but the light was gone. 
Womanhood had fled, the merely animal had tri- 
umphed. Passion, vice, and despair vied for the mas- 
tery. She looked much older, though the space be- 
tween her ruin and her death comprised, I should say, 
a few years only. I seemed to have a knowledge that 
despair had driven her to a watery grave. 

1 stood rooted to the ground with horror, as a 
murderer at the sudden sight of the gallows. She was 
my work, degraded, and lost, yet lovely once and pure 1 

There she sat, wringing her garments and the tresses 
of her hair — and wringing her hands in hopeless 
agony; sigh upon sigh breaking as from a heart over- 
whelmed with shame. 

I thought of escaping, feeling as though a possible 


i6B 


A MESSAGE 


word from her must be a dagger to kill me. But I 
know not what power drove me towards her. Was I 
going to throw myself at her feet? 

Now only she perceived me. Darting up, she gave 
me one look of terror and loathing, and hurried a\^^. 
It was impossible for me to reach her. The power of 
abhorrence alone was sufficient to make her keep me at 
a distance. And presently she escaped from my sight 
altogether, lost in a troop of bewildered spirits just 
arriving from the shores of death. 

I turned and fled, followed by the Furies. 


LETTER XIL 


I HAVE been to the post-office. That institution also 
Is represented here, as I found out quite recently. 
Truly nothing Is wanting In this place except all that 
one needs In order to live and to hope. 

I had gone to Inquire for letters. There Is some- 
thing very curious about this post-office of ours. You 
have heard of what befell Uriah. There have always 
been people who, betraying their neighbor, have 
done so by writing. But the Invention is older even 
than that notorious letter, originating, no doubt, with 
the father of lies in the first place. It was he who 
Inspired that piece of treachery, just as he Inspired 
Judas’ kiss. Treason by writing Is known all over 
the world now. There are those who delight In the 
cleverness of such a letter, quite priding themselves 
on the art of taking In their fellows. 

Be It known, then, that every such letter goes to 
hell at the expense of the writer, to be called for sooner 
or later — not by the person to whom it Is addressed, 
but by the sender; some few cases excepted — King 
David’s to begin with — where true repentance cancels 
the writing. That is the meaning of our post-office, and 
I assure you It Is most humiliating to be seen there; 
for even here one perceives the meanness of such corre- 
spondence, the writer’s punishment consisting in having 
to read it over and over again to his lasting confusion. 

' I somehow could not rest till I had been to inquire 
for letters ; to my great relief there were none for me ! 
Bad as I was, I had after all never been a downright 
169 

i 


lyo A MESSAGE 

Judas, and I felt ready to give thanks for that assurance. 
I had no real satisfaction in the feeling; still, for a mo- 
ment, it seemed I had. 

But such letters are not all: there are spurious docu- 
ments and false signatures here more than can be 
counted. Let men beware how they put pen to paper; 
writing has a terrible power of clinging to the soul. 
None but God Himself can blot it out. 

I never knew more than two people capable of teach- 
ing me patience — my mother and Lily — Lily’s in- 
fluence over me being the stronger by far. My mother’s 
props were propriety and duty; but Lily moved me by 
that wonderful goodness of hers, that sunny warmth 
that emanated from her loving heart. In the exuber- 
ance of masculine strength I often inclined to be violent 
and overbearing, ill brooking opposition and delighting 
in conquering obstacles, yielding to the absolutely im- 
possible only with clenched fists: submissiveness did not 
grace my nature. That indomitable spirit of mine 
would break out at times on our memorable journey to 
the south; but on that journey, also, Lily’s power over 
me was fully apparent. I was learning from her daily 
without knowing it, nor did she know it, unconscious as 
she was of her soul’s beauty: patience was one of the 
many good things to which she led me. 

We had reached Lucerne, intending to go over the' 
St. Gothard to Italy. I wanted Lily to have the full 
enjoyment of crossing the Alps, there being to my mind 
nothing more beautiful than the sudden transition from 
the austere north to the genial life-expanding south; and 
passing by the Gothard, or the Spliigen, or the Simplon, 
one can gather the fulness of all Italy into one day as it 
were. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 171 

The weather at Lucerne was most unfavorable, and 
kept us waiting full eight days. I chafed. Morning 
after morning Lily and I went to the great bridge to 
have a look at the sky; but little sky we saw; everything 
was mist and spray, hiding all prospect of lake or moun- 
tain-top. My vexation was boundless; day after day 
the same miserable lookout ! I thought them wretched, 
those excursions after breakfast, but their memory is 
sweet. Lily was leading me up and down that queer 
old bridge — a wild animal in chains. It needed but 
the pressure of her soft little hand and my grumblings 
were silenced. 

How clever she was — how ingenious even — in 
amusing me. Traveled folk will remember that old- 
fashioned structure spanning the Reuss; it is covered, 
and the spaces between the woodwork that supports 
the roof are filled with antique paintings — both 
naively conceived and grotesquely executed. She would 
suddenly stop now in front of this picture, now in front 
of that, her delightful remarks again and again restor- 
ing my good humor. 

The weather cleared at last, to our great satisfaction. 
We had gone to the bridge, earlier than usual, when 
suddenly the mists parted, revealing the dazzling mir- 
ror from shore to shore; and, rolling upward, the cur- 
tain disclosed the mountain scenery, so lovely, so grand. 
We stood, spellbound, watching the transformation: the 
splendid expanse of water, from which the country rises, 
height upon height, mountain upon mountain, the great 
Alps behind them lifting their virgin whiteness In the 
radiant air. 

The following morning, then, we started at sunrise, 
crossing the lake and thinking hopefully of the Gothard. 
The boatmen doubted the weather, but we hoped for 
11 


172 A MESSAGE 

good fortune, enjoying the present, which had steeped 
all nature in floods of light. How beautiful it is, how 
surpassingly beautiful, that alpine scenery, lifting you 
into high regions, still and pure ! The first alpine-rose 
nearly cost me my life — it was for Lily. We drove 
and walked alternately. It was a day the memory of 
which sank into the soul. As the sun went down we 
passed through the wild dark glens that lead to the 
valley of Ursern, the restful beauty of which, so simple 
yet sublime, opens out before you as though earth glori- 
fied were a fact already. We passed the night in the 
little town of Andermatt. The following morning — 
what a change! The boat-people had been right: snow 
covered the ground ; a storm swept the valley. 

My impatience was by this fresh delay stung to 
frenzy. One day passed — another — a third ; w^e con- 
tinued weather-bound. To take it quietly was impossi- 
ble to me. I set out upon several expeditions by myself 
to explore the neighborhood, fraught with danger to 
life and limb though they were. Lily, fearful lest any- 
thing should befall me, entreated me to abstain, and 
to please her I yielded. How sweetly she set herself 
to reward me! What none could have done, she did, 
making the time pass pleasantly, and teaching me pa- 
tience. She took me about the little town visiting the 
people. The houses and cottages seemed all open to 
her, and the simple folk received her like an old friend. 

Now it had an interest of its own, no doubt, to be- 
come acquainted with the home-life of this alpine re- 
treat, but, after all, Lily was the center of all I saw 
and heard. And how should it have been otherwise, 
when she was as a sunbeam gliding from house to 
house, unutterably lovely in her unconscious sympathy, 
calling up smiles wherever she went, and leaving a 


FROM A LOST SOUL 173 

blessing behind her! I am sure the people thought so, 
feeling the better for having seen her. Poverty brlght- 
oned on beholding her, and suffering lessened; she 
seemed welcome everywhere; It was marvelous. An 
ordinary observer would have said, “Yes, such Is the 
power of youth and beauty.” But a deeper fascination 
went out from her, since hers were higher graces, known 
to God. 

The Involuntary sojourn against all expectation 
yielded Its own gain, enriching life as with an Idyl 
l3rought home to our minds In that alpine solitude. 

Not that I ceased fretting at the delay. One even- 
ing I asked Lily: “ How can you make yourself so con- 
tentedly happy In this wretched place, when we might 
be spending days of delight beyond?” 

“ Oh,” she said, “ It is not difficult. Even though 
we are kept here against our will, and the place seems 
dull and desolate with the gray mists about us, yet I 
know that there is beauty awaiting us on the other side 
of the mountain; a few days only, a few hours even, 
and we may be there.” 

She was growing thoughtful. “ Philip,” she contin- 
ued presently, “ does it not remind you of life Itself? 
The world often seems cold and dreary, not yielding 
the sunny warmth one craves. But then we do know 
that Paradise Is beyond, — the true home prepared 
for us In the house of our heavenly Father. As yet 
there Is a mountain between us and the place beyond, 
the mount of crucifixion, of denying ourselves; It Is 
for us to pass It, and then we do reach home, where 
earth’s troubles are all left behind. . . .” 

And before long we did find ourselves on the other 
side, resting from the journey In a charming villa on 
the bank of Lago Magglore. Lily and I were sitting 


A MESSAGE 


174 

in a pillared hall, listening to the soft cadence of the 
waters, and enjoying an indescribably enchanting view 
of the island-dotted lake. Mountains framed the pic- 
ture beyond, rising higher and higher, earth vanishing 
into sky — the most distant heights scarcely to be dis- 
tinguished from the white clouds on the sunny horizon. 

From seeming mid-winter we had reached the per- 
fection of a genial clime. Lily’s hands twined white 
roses and myrtles which she had gathered about the 
place. She played with the flowers, now wreathing 
them, now unwreathing them. There was a bridal 
purity about those children of the south, and Lily was 
herself the sweetest of blossoms. My heart burned; 
I longed to seize the hands that held, the flowers, and 
cover them with kisses, but a holy power forbade me. 
Ever and again I felt as though some angel were stand- 
ing between Lily and myself. 

“What are you thinking of?” I asked, my voice 
betraying my emotion. 

“I?” she said gently, lifting her soft gaze, and my 
heart was stilled. “ I am thinking of that poor dark 
mountain valley we left behind. The memory of it 
seems to enhance the beauty we now enjoy, deepen- 
ing its riches and our sense of them. And, feeling thus, 
I cannot but bless the time spent on the other side of 
the dividing mountain, though it seemed gloomy and 
cold, and the longing was great. 

“ Don’t you think, Philip, that one day when we 
have reached heaven, we shall be looking back with 
similar feelings upon the troubled times we may have 
spent on earth? I think we shall, and that we shall 
be able to bless them, if we now accept them in pa- 
tience and in hope, looking to God and His dear Son. 


A MESSAGE 175 

Their memory will even add to the bliss prepared 
for us.” 

A strange sensation crept through me at these words 
of Lily’s — a holy tremor I might call it, but fraught 
with pain. Should I be looking back some day from 
the fields of glory, back upon life on earth? Ah, what 
a life. I zvotild mend my ways^ — indeed I would! 

But I never succeeded in climbing that mountain 
of which Lily had spoken — the mountain of crucifixion. 
Its weight, on the contrary, is now upon me, crushing 
me to all eternity. 

A journey through Italy for a man of my descrip- 
tion may well be called a trial of patience. Custom- 
house-officers, luggage-porters, guides, hotel-keepers, 
and the whole tribe of beggars swarm about you like 
persecuting wasps. The miserable greed of that class 
of Italians, with their constant attempts at cheating 
you, was more than I could brook. I often felt ready 
to thrash every mother’s son of them that came in my 
way. But here also Lily was my saving angel. Hav- 
ing frightened her to tears once by an outbreak of pas- 
sion, I felt so sorry at having grieved her that I was 
ready to submit all traveling affairs to her decision, 
satisfied she should guide me — another Una leading 
the lion 1 She needed only to place her hand on my 
arm, looking at me with her beseeching eyes, and I was 
conquered, no matter what had been the provocation. 
She understood, none better than she, how to deal with 
the meanness that roused me. Blessings followed her 
where I met but imprecation. Blessings indeed seemed 
to grow up about her path wherever she went, and the 
blessing included me. I was growing better — I felt it. 
But it must have been a delusive feeling after all, for 
my heart was never changed. 


LETTER XIIL 


There are very aged people in hell, naturally. To 
be two or three thousand years old, according to 
human computation, is nothing unusual here. There 
are men in this place who lived in the time of 
Sardanapalus, of Cyrus, of Alexander the Great; who 
knew Socrates perhaps, or Cicero, Horace, Seneca, and 
the like. Indeed, who can tell, but some of these 
historic personages themselves are here ! There are 
people here who remember the fall of Ninevah, the 
sacking of Troy, the destruction of Jerusalem; who 
consulted the stars with the Chaldees of old, who 
tended the flocks in the days of Abraham, who helped 
to build the pyramids of Egypt; others are here to 
whom Noah preached the deluge. Hell, then, would 
seem to be a fine place for the pursuit of history; but 
somehow no one cares for that study here, things being 
dead in this place and void of interest. I myself do 
not care in the least to become acquainted with historic 
characters — the only longing I am conscious of in this 
respect, being to meet with a contemporary of the Savior 
of men, — one who saw and heard Him, I mean. But 
it is a fruitless desire. There are many here of course 
who lived in His day, and even listened to His teaching; 
but, although they say they remember, they are quite 
incapable of imparting anything; or they speak of a 
false Messiah, of a deceiver of the people. There is 
not a particle of truth in all their talk, and it is truth 
I am thirsting for so grievously. Is it not terrible? 

But I am wandering from my subject: I was going 
176 


FROM A LOST SOUL 177 

to say that old people here assure you that the at- 
mosphere of this place is fast turning into vapor ' — a 
pleasant prospect this if it goes on ! 

Now, I remember noticing that empty talk is on the 
increase in the world. Thoughtful men to whom I 
mentioned the observation believed cheap literature and 
the so-called education of the masses to be the probable 
cause. 

A strange explanation of the aforenamed phenom- 
enon, is it not? Vanity of speech on the increase 
— a pleasant prospect truly if it continues! To be 
sure the world could never do without its talk, but 
the superabundance is alarming; a new deluge threat- 
ens, the spirit is lost in hollow words. The world used 
to be more simple, I am sure, in olden times; straight- 
forward statements, at any rate, used to be current much 
more than they are now. Invention in all spheres is 
on the increase, the invention of pretences remarkably 
so. One feels inclined at times to call out despairingly: 
“Words, words, words!” as Hamlet did. I am sure 
words are the dominant power nowadays in so-called 
intellectual pursuits; it is not the informing spirit, but 
the phrase, which is puffed and offered for sale. It has 
transpired, however, that the genius of talk is pre- 
pared to patronize the genius of mind, promising to 
save it from utter neglect, but the spirit will have 
none of it, crying: “ Let me die rather than be the slave 
of words ! ” 

Another striking observation has been made here 
of late — the number of women in hell is on the in- 
crease. Now the emptiness of talk is scarcely a suffi- 
cient explanation of this fact, but a fact it is. Only 
half a century ago men used to preponderate by far; 
at the present moment equality has very nearly been 


A MESSAGE 


178 

attained; before long, I doubt not, the fairer sex will 
outnumber the stronger. 

There is a reason for everything, and the cause 
of the effect in question will appear patent to any one 
looking about him open-eyed. Education is at fault — • 
that watchword of modern times ! We hear much 
nowadays of woman’s right to be educated. Not a 
doubt of it, and some few I believe manage their own 
creditable share of culture. It is not of those I would 
speak, but of the training of girls in a general way. 
How, indeed, do we educate them? and is their mind, 
their heart, the better for the teaching they get? Do 
we bring them to view in nature for instance, or in his- 
tory, the eternal purpose of beauty and of truth? Are 
we anxious that they should learn to distinguish between 
the pure and the impure, the mean and the noble, the 
paltry and the truly great? that they should seek the 
ideal in life — ay, their own ideal, the crown of their 
womanhood? Is it truth, is it love, we teach them? 
and above all, do we lead them to Him who is truth and 
love eternal, their God, their Savior ? 

Do we, I ask? but no, this is not the so-called first- 
class education our girls get for all their governesses 
and finishing-masters ! Our girls, coming forth from 
the schoolroom, will jabber their two or three foreign 
tongues, will rattle away on the piano, or sing a song, 
and happy are the ears that need not hear it ! Our 
girls, moreover, are found to have a smattering of 
things in general, enabling them to venture on all sorts 
of topics concerning which they are profoundly igno- 
rant; our girls are supposed to have acquired style and 
deportment to boot; the art of dress being neither last 
nor least. Every fold of their garments assumes a 


FROM A LOST SOUL 179 

vital importance; but concerning the bent of their 
hearts, who takes the trouble to inquire? 

It is vanity, and their education a farce. Poor girls ! 
poor women ! You are worse off, I say, in these days 
of culture than you were in the darkest of ages when 
no one dreamt you needed teaching. In those days you 
were looked upon as though you had no souls; time 
righted you, and it was allowed you were not mere 
puppets. Now you are being varnished over by way 
of education, till your soul lies encrusted beneath. 

The good old times, after all, were best. Our grand- 
mothers were brought up for home duties chiefly, and 
lesson-books were of the fewest beyond their Bibles and 
their catechism. Women knew their calling; they ac- 
cepted it at the hands of God, and were happy in doing 
their duty. But now — what of it? the clearest notion 
which girls and, I fear, many women, have of duty 
nowadays is, that it is a bore. 

And what is life, as they take it? Is it not to amuse 
themselves as long as possible, to play lawn tennis all 
day and every day, to catch a husband and have sweet 
little babies — little dears, images of their mother, of 
course — to be fashionable, shining in society, till old 
age overtakes them; is not that it? But there remains 
one thing which is never mentioned — they may die any 
day and wake up in hell ! 

Earth, truly, presents a variety of schools preparatory 
for hell ; those which men frequent are bad enough, but 
those for women — let angels weep ! 

I went for a walk lately, passing by the gates of 
hell. Understand me aright; I am not speaking of 
those awful gates of hell set up in defiance of the Lord 
of heaven Himself, though they cannot prevail. They 
are in the abyss I have spoken of, which is a far more 


i8o 


A MESSAGE 


dreadful place than this abode of death. I only mean 
that I passed near the entrance of Hades. 

An entrance truly it is, for of your own free will 
you never get out, wide open though you find it. I 
cannot tell whether I contemplated anything like an 
escape: I only know that on approaching a Certain 
boundary line an awful “ Stop ! ” resounded, and I slunk i 
back terrified. \ 

No one, then, passes out, save under dread compul- ^ 
sion; but there is a flocking in continuously. I forget 
what they say of the death-rate in the world, is it every . 
minute or every second that a human soul goes to eter- ] 
nity? Be it as it may, it is a terrible fact that the - 

greater part of those who die present themselves at i 

these gates of hopelessness. There is not a more ap- - 
palling sight in all hell than watching this entrance ! 

The space beyond is wrapt in a shadowy mist, out of 
which lost souls are constantly emerging, singly or in 
troops, dawning upon your vision. They are all equally ' 

naked, differing but in sex and in age. The beggar ^ 

and the king are not to be known from one another, 
both arriving in like miserable nakedness. That abject 
misery is the common mark of unredeemed humanity, 
set upon all the children of Adam coming hither, no 
matter what station was theirs in life. They have all f 
come by the same road, broad and pleasant at first, | 
but terrible at its latter end. As they approach the ? 
gates they are seized with fear and trembling, and pass f 
them in an agony of despair. f 

The love of amusement nowadays scarcely stops short % 
of the harassing; men love to feast upon anything that S 
excites their unhealthy fancy. But I assure you I have 5 
not sunk to that state of callousness which could look ffi 
upon the dreadful scene unmoved. “ All these are com- § 


FROM A LOST SOUL i8i 

ing to share my misery! ” I cried. Say not it was com- 
placency clothed in pity; there was something not alto- 
gether mean in my sympathy. I could have wept for 
them, as I long to weep for myself. 

Yet, after all, I felt fascinated by the sight, and 
tore myself away with difficulty; the picture, I knew, 
would pursue me into whatever solitude I might plunge. 

How rich is life, how full of enjoyment! I see it 
now where nothing is left to comfort the soul. My 
life, I too cannot but own, was overflowing with bless- 
ings; how many moments I can call to mind that seemed 
welling over with content ! 

The sound of a certain bell keeps coming back to 
my inward ear. I hear it ringing, ringing, and it vi- 
brates through my inmost soul. It is the bell of even- 
song, to which I loved to listen in days gone by. And 
as I hear it, the sounds call up a scene of beauty rich 
with the hues of memory. I see waving cornfields, like 
sheets of gold between the somber woodlands and the 
winding stream; I see towering mountains lifting their 
rocky heights into the burnished colors of the west; I 
see the sun sinking on the horizon, vanishing in a wealth 
of roseate sheen. And twilight spreads her wings, a 
deep holy calm enwrapping nature. I say a holy calm, 
for the sounds of the ringing bell are burdened with a 
message of peace to the soul. The smoke ascends from 
the cottages about, and the incense of pi^ayer arises from 
many a heart. Those whom love unites gather in 
unity. The children nestle by their mother’s knee await- 
ing the father returning from work. And when he has 
come, they close the door upon the outside world, upon 
the troubles and hardships too that daily life may bring. 
Or if some cause of care will not be banished, there is 


i 82 


A MESSAGE 


love at hand to deal with it ; yea, it helps to nurture that 
love whose deepest roots are sunk in sorrow. 

Would I were that poor laborer returning from the 
field he tills in the sweat of his brow; or that barefooted 
youth keeping the cattle on the lea 1 

The evening bell continues ringing, ringing, to my 
ear; but the message it carries now is: 

“ Too late ! too late ! ” 

Ah, little bell, my longing is turned to despair! 


LETTER XIV. 


I REVERT to my childhood. It was the eve of Aunt 
Betty’s birthday. My present had been waiting for 
ever so long; I gloated over it in secret with distracted 
feelings; I would not for worlds have betrayed it pre- 
maturely, yet I longed to let her guess at the wonderful 
surprise in store for her. Thus divided in my childish 
mind I sought her little room in the twilight. 

She was not there, and I grew impatient. I must 
needs look for something to amuse me. But there 
was nothing that owned the charm of novelty. I gazed 
about, yawning, when a large moth on the window 
caught my eye. That called me to action, and, for- 
getful of all Aunt Betty’s pious injunctions to leave 
God’s creatures unmolested, I forthwith set up a chase. 
Nor was it long before I had caught the hapless insect; 
it fluttered anxiously, but I held it fast, bent upon exam- 
ining it, when suddenly Aunt Betty entered. Over- 
taken in my boyish cruelty, I closed my hand upon the 
little prisoner, and stood trembling. 

Aunt Betty, however, did not seem to notice that I 
was ill at ease, and turned to me with her usual kind- 
ness. I felt very miserable, and conversation would 
not flow, so she told me a story, her usual device when 
she thought I needed rousing. Now, whatever her 
stories might be worth, — and they were not by any 
means always inventions of genius, ' — they were sure to 
culminate in some sort of moral which never failed to 
impress me. Aunt Betty’s story on this occasion led up 
to the statement — God see thee ! 

183 


A MESSAGE 


184 

The words fell on me like judgment; involuntarily 
I hid my hand behind my back, my heart beating, ready 
to burst. 

“ You must know, darling,” Aunt Betty went on un- 
consciously, “ that God sits upon His holy throne, an 
angel on His right hand, and another on His left, each 
having a book before him. And the angel to the right 
marks down all the good, however little or weak, which 
man strives to do while he. lives on earth ; that angel is 
always smiling a heavenly smile. But the angel on 
the left is full of weeping, as he notes down the evil 
deeds of men. And at the last day, when the great 
reckoning has come, a voice is heard from the throne 
— “ Give up the books ! ” And then our deeds are 
examined; if there is more evil than good, and we have 
not repented of it humbly, and received forgiveness 
of sin, it will go ill with us! We shall be forever wail- 
ing in the evil place.” 

This ending of auntie’s story troubled me greatly. 
I pressed my hands together closer and closer, feeling 
at the same time as though a live coal were burning my 
palm. It was conscience which burned. The poor 
moth must have been dead long before, yet I felt as 
though it were still fluttering within my grasp, trying 
to free itself from the unkind hold. “ God seeth all 
things,” said auntie; “and we must answer to Him 
for all our deeds at the last day! ” Self-control was at 
an end; a flood of tears came to the rescue; and, unable 
to say as single word, I held out my hand to Aunt Betty, 
the crushed moth witnessing against me. 

She understood at once, and drawing me to her heart 
she first pointed to the wrong of cruelty; but added 
her own sweet words of consolation, that God would 
forgive me if my tears could tell Him I was sorry. But 





FROM A LOST SOUL 187 

I was not able at once to grasp this assurance, sobbing 
piteously. Never was there anything more tender, 
more full of love, than Aunt Betty’s ways when com- 
fort was needed. And presently she made me kneel 
down and ask God to forgive me. It was she who 
prayed, I repeating the words after her. But they came 
from my heart, and never was there more sincere repent- 
ance. 

And then she told me another story, and that story, 
too, must have its moral. Pressing me close to her 
heart she exhorted , me to look to God in all my doings, 
and turn to Him^inlprayer my life long. Whenever I 
had done anything amiss I should tell Him so with a 
contrite heart, begging Him to forgive me, and promis- 
ing Him sincerely that I would try not to do so again. 
Then the Lord God would pity me in His mercy, and I 
need not fear the dreadful book. 

As for the poor moth, we buried it sorrowfully in one 
of auntie’s flower-pots. We gave it a coffin of rose 
leaves, so that the mangled corpse need not be touched 
by the covering earth. 

My heart was light again when I left the little room. 
But all that night I was troubled in dreams. Again 
and again I heard the dreadful words, “ Give up the 
books ! ” And, waking, I sat up in bed to find myself 
in the dark. I had never known before what it was 
to be afraid of the dark; now I knew. 

The following morning, as soon as I was dressed, 
I ran to Aunt Betty’s door, finding it locked contrary 
to habit. “ It is me, auntie ! ” I cried, and was admitted 
directly. But I stood still, amazed; the tears ran down 
Aunt Betty’s face. On the table before her there was 
the most marvellous array of queer old things, which 
I did not remember ever having seen. Indeed, such 


i88 


A MESSAGE 


was my amazement and, I must add, my grief, that I 
forgot all about the precious present I had come to de- 
liver. My first clear idea was that Aunt Betty too per- 
chance might have crushed a moth; but a brighter 
thought supervened. “ Auntie,” I whispered, pressing 
close to her, “ didn’t you say last night that God seeth 
all things? Does He see you are crying? ” 

Aunty Betty started, a flood of light illumining her 
features : 

“Yes, darling,” she said, “thank you! He does 
know all things and He knows my tears; it is very 
wrong of me to forget it. He does not only know 
them, but He counts them I ” 

And quickly she dried them, showing me her own 
old smiling face. 

“ Can you not see, my child, how the Lord has 
wiped them away? He needs but look upon poor 
human eyes and they cease crying.” 

“ But why did you cry, auntie? ” 

“ That is more than you could understand, dearie. 
I am forty years old this day, but why need I cry? 
why should I, even if I were an old maid of sixty or 
eighty? ay, and if He will have me live till I am a 
hundred, I will not murmur. Come and sit down by 
me, that I may talk to you.” And she began : 

“ Years ago, my child, there was a young girl as 
pretty as she was foolish. She believed the world to be 
indescribably beautiful, and that all its glories were wait- 
ing to be showered into her lap. There was no harm 
in this illusion in itself; but it was hurtful because alto- 
gether untrue. The world is not meant to be so de- 
lightful to any of us. The girl herself was really pretty, 
and when people told her so, she would cast down her 


FROM A LOST SOUL 189 

eyes, feeling as though she must sink into the ground 
for shyness. 

“ There was one especially who told her so times 
without number. And he was beautiful without a doubt 
— strong, manly, and winning. He was a sailor. It 
was a time of war, and he commanded a privateer. 

“ She loved him dearly, with all her heart. There 
was a ball one day^ — do you know what a ball is? It 
is a queer thing — a mixture of angelic delight and 
devilish invention. One is carried along, floating, as it 
were, in the airy spaces between heaven and earth and 
hell — at least I think so. . . . Well, when the 

ball was over he entreated her for one of her gloves. 
There was nothing she could have refused him at that 
moment, I believe. He had it — and here you see its 
fellow ! ” 

And she showed me number one of her relics — an 
ancient kid glove. 

“ But the young girl’s parents said he was an ad- 
venturer and not fit to marry into a respectable family. 
That was her first grief. Still he had her heart; she 
said she would never love another, and they were per- 
mitted at last to be engaged to one another. This is 
the ring he gave her ! 

“ Now she swam in happiness. One voice only in 
all the universe had power over her heart, and that 
voice was his. It might have been true that he was 
not without many and grave faults, but she loved him 
just as he was. He might have sunk lower and lower, 
I believe she would have loved him still. For, once 
the heart has been given away truly — but that is more 
than you can understand. Well, he went to sea, and re- 
turned. It was a splendid vessel which he commanded, 
the “ Viking,” they called it. One capture after an- 
12 


’A MESSAGE 


190 

other he made, and grew rich upon the prizes taken. 
But people said money never remained with him ; he was ^ 
careless of it, and prone to gambling. This is the 
ship 1 ” 

She showed me a little picture representing a schooner * 
skimming over the bluest of seas. 1 

“ His absence sometimes was long. But they ex- 
changed letters whenever opportunity offered — such 
letters! All her soul was in hers. And as for his — i 
well, here they are 1 ” I 

She pointed to a packet of faded letters, carefully , 
tied together with a once rose-colored ribbon. ' ' 

“ And then there came a time when news ceased. • 
What she felt and suffered in those sad days I cannot ; 
tell you. At last she heard again. He was ill — the 
letter said — very ill in a foreign seaport. Winter was 1 
approaching, but she would not be deterred. Taking ' 
her trusted maid with her, she set out upon the journey, 
and found him in misery. He had been wounded in a ' 
duel — what that is you need not know, but here is the 
bullet! ^ 

“She nursed him and he recovered; she freed him , 

from his liabilities, paying all his debts. Full of con- ) 
trition, and with a new heart apparently, he returned ; 
with her ; his promises satisfied her and her family. He v 
would give up privateering, and take the command of a * 

merchantman instead. She should go with him as his 
wife. ; 

“ Once more they were to separate and then be united k 
for life. He went to visit his relations and settle his - 
affairs. 'J 

“ The weeks passed, the wedding-day approached. | 
Happy hour that should crown her hopes, heal her 
griefs, and reward her for all past suffering ! The wed- 


FROM A LOST SOUL 19 1 

ding-dress was ready. This is the wreath ■ — do you 
know the bridal blossoms? Poor wreath, it is faded 
now and shrivelled, but it will last, I think, while two 
eyes are left to look upon it fondly, for the sake of the 
love that came and went. 

“ There was another letter. He had set out to join 
her, but turned half-way, never to see her again. Here 
is that saddest of letters; what tears it cost her — what 
pangs — to answer it ! 

“ Was he wicked? I do not think so, but very heed- 
less. He had surrounded himself with difficulties, and 
there was but one way out of them : one heart must be 
broken. His uncle, who adopted him, had a daughter 
— God bless her! He had engaged himself twice 
over; men, I fear, can do such things. Pie could re- 
deem his pledge to one only. He did his duty by her, 
who perhaps had suffered most for him, and who — 
but let that pass. They say that he settled down and 
made her a good husband. I trust the Lord has for- 
given him the sins of his youth. 

“ But for that other one, who gladly would have 
sacrificed her all for his sake, happiness was dead and 
gone, her beauty fading with her hopes. She grew old, 
and people began to find her plain. She had nothing 
left to live for^ — in herself I mean — so she lived for 
others. The world is bad, but men need sympathy; 
they are not all bad, but many are unhappy, suffering, 
and poor. The old maid has found comfort in God, 
her Lord and Savior.” 

She stopped, and carefully set herself to pack up her 
treasures. 

And that accomplished, she turned to me smiling: 

“ I have done for a year! ” she said; “ let us think 
of breakfast now.” 


A MESSAGE 


192 

I, of course, had not taken in the meaning of her 
story, nor was there any need. She had felt a longing 
to unburden herself to human ears; she had done so, 
but her secret was hers. 

Now I remember her words, understanding them as 
I did not then; I am able to enter Into her feelings 
now — those feelings of her fortieth birthday, when 
she, the so-called old maid, poured out her heart to the 
child. 

At dinner Aunt Betty appeared unusually gay, mak- 
ing the funniest little speeches, and keeping us In the 
best of humor all that day. 

But those words of hers, “ God seeth thee,” would 
return to me often, even In later years. They had been 
words of comfort to my pious old aunt; to me they 
sounded as the trumpets of judgment, so different was I 
from her! And then the time came when I learnt to 
disregard those words entirely — when It was nothing to 
me to crush many a creature of God’s making, that be- 
cause of my touch never would lift wing again. 

To pass the time seems to be one of the chief ob- 
jects in life, and how to pass It a question on which 
the most Ingenious Inventions have been brought to bear. 
Whether the wickedness or the folly of the endeavor 
Is the more deplorable Is difficult to say. There are 
few phrases showing the perversity of the world more 
fully than this current expression, to pass the time! 
Time and life are inseparable; men want to live; they 
consequently try to pass away the time, and yet It Is 
time which yields the fullness of existence, iDe It In 
sorrow or in joy. To pass the time Is considered to 
live; but at the end of time stands Death, with hour- 
glass and sickle, waiting for the last grains to run out. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 193 

Passing the time, then, may be tantamount to slow 
self-murder. Men are anxious to pass it away as 
though it were a frightful monster — an enemy to life 
and its enjoyment — never thinking that the real enemy 
may be coming when time has vanished. If people 
would but understand that time is their most precious 
gift — a grace of heavenly fullness — and that all the 
treasures of the East can never make up for a day 
wasted, for an hour lost! And if a single hour may be 
so rich in blessing, what then must time itself be worth, 
lying before us as a shoreless ocean? But the entire 
blessedness of the gift will come to the believing heart 
only in the kingdom to come, where Love rules which 
made the time. 

In hell, where everything is seen in its own true light, 
the passing of time, or rather time passed, assumes an 
awful significance; for truth and reality are upon us. 
It was time which, for us also, included the largess 
of life — the manifold blessings shed abroad by the 
hand of God. Time is past now, and hope has fled. 
Ay, we ourselves are thrust out of it, never to enter 
again; time for us has vanished, leaving existence be- 
hind. 

One of the great sources of amusement on earth for 
the beguiling of dull time is the theater. Well, we 
too have a theater, though time with us needs no more 
whiling away. Old habit only is its raison Aetre. 
Women need something here to incite their fancy, men 
something to meet their craving — not to mention the 
question of food for fashionable conversation. There 
is no weather here to be talked about, so we must fall 
back upon the theater. 

Acting with us is carried out in a magnificent if pe- 
culiar style, the like of which is not possible in the 


A MESSAGE 


194 

world, not even in Paris, that theater of theaters. 
True, we are poor in dramatic works, for not many 
plays of poet’s invention are so glaringly immoral that 
they are fit for hell; the greater number being vapid 
rather than wicked, no one cares for them here. But 
we have resources outdoing anything dreamt of by 
stage managers upon earth; for we nearly always act 
life — real occurrences that is — the actors being the 
very perpetrators of the things set in scene. That is to 
say, they commit over again on hell’s stage the deeds of 
their earthly life. The theater-going public with us 
then do not feed upon imagination, but on flat reality, 
the child of illusion. 

Of stage managers there is no lack here, but theirs 
is no enviable task. It needs their utmost exertion to 
outdo one another in producing things horrible or 
piquant; for people here also desire to be tickled, blase 
though they be. So the harassed manager rushes about 
seeking for some spicy occurrence, some sensational 
wickedness; and having got it, he must look for the 
men and women who did it, though they be roaming in 
the farthermost places of hell. Find them he must, 
and having found them, there is no help for them ; they 
must play their part. 

Let me give an example. There is a piece which 
made a great hit here lately, called the “ Jewel Rob- 
bery,” a most Satanic mixture of seduction, murder and 
theft. A handsome woman, good-natured, but silly, is 
intentionally led astray, as a means only; the object 
being a famous robbery, necessitating two frightful 
murders besides. A piece full of the most unwhole- 
some effect, you see, and not invented by exaggerating 
playwright’s fancy; but a reproduction, in all minutest 
details even, of horrible facts. The daily papers were 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


195 

full of it at the time. They are all here who were 
mixed up in it, continuing to play the part that brought 
them hither. You will understand from this that we 
could not act virtuous pieces even if the audience desired 
them ; the needful actors not being procurable ! 

Our theater, nevertheless, plainly has the advantage, 
since real murderers, villains, and profligates are here 
to take their parts, and all the pieces given are scenes 
of actual life; our dramatis persona, then, though 
forced to play, do so with singular vivacity and truth- 
fulness. If good people are required, by way of dupes 
and victims, we fall back upon hypocrites who delight 
in the opportunity of showing forth their special tal- 
ents, and indeed they manage their assumed character 
very cleverly. 

Moral laws naturally are quite out of the question; 
there is no eventual victory of goodness, nor need the 
triumph of wickedness be sustained. Play-acting in 
hell is quite independent of rules, either moral or dra- 
matic, pieces simply being carried to the point they 
reached in life. 

The scenery is unrivalled, — illusion of course, but 
the illusion is perfect. It is quite within our power to 
imagine any place, the surroundings of the original plot, 
mere jugglery, but appearing most real. These scenes 
sometimes are wonderfully impressive, many a specta- 
tor, at the unexpected sight of well-known places, fall- 
ing a prey to hopeless longing. 

Effective, then, as these representations are, they are 
a torment alike to actor and audience. In this 
also we are driven to own the one law paramount that 
makes inclination here a terrible compulsion not 
leaving so much as a desire even that it might be other- 
wise. 


LETTER XV. 


Should the idea present itself to you to publish these 
letters, you have my full permission for doing so — 
not that I write them with this view primarily. And 
people very likely will doubt their genuineness. 
“ Even supposing souls in hell to be able to write let- 
ers,” they will say, “ how should their missives reach 
the upper world? ” 

People are strangely inconsistent. The man lives not 
who has not heard of spirits and ghosts, while a great 
many actually believe in supernatural appearances. 
Now supposing there are ghosts, why should not ghost 
letters be conceivable? And w^hat more natural than 
to imagine that some restless spirit, permitted to re- 
visit former scenes, should somehow mediate such com- 
munication? 

Such is indeed the fact in the present case. Count 
the letters you have had from me, and be sure that so 
many ghosts have been to your dwelling. Do not be 
horrified ! I do not entrust my confessions to any wan- 
dering soul, but only to respectable spirits. Indeed, if 
the natural shrinking of mortal man were not in your 
way, you might find some of them worth the knowing. 
In any case I pledge them to polite behavior, that they 
shall nowise harass you, but do their errand unseen. 
Not all ghosts have a character for worrying mortals; 
some, on the contrary, are exceedingly trustworthy, and 
could be sent anywhere. 

Be it known to you, then, that whenever you find 
yourself possessed of fresh news from me, some ghost 
196 


FROM A LOST SOUL 197 

has been to your house that night. Did you not find 
a letter beneath your desk lately — on the floor I mean ? 
This is how it was. On leaving off writing the even- 
ing before, you left your pen and pencil crosswise on 
the table — quite by accident, I dare say; but my mes- 
senger, on perceiving the holy sign, was seized with 
such a fit of trembling that he dropped the letter and 
sped away. And while I am about it, I would ask you 
to get rid of the supernumerary cocks in your farmyard; 
the piercing call of the bird of dawn may be all very 
well in your ears, but to us it bears a terrible warning, 
reminding us of a day to come, the day of resurrection 
and final doom, which we know must come, however 
distant it be. 

My handwriting I dare say is not very legible; I 
hope you will excuse it. There is not a pen to be had 
here but what has been worn out in the service of false- 
hood or injustice. The paper too is wretched. I could 
find nothing but some old documents to serve the pur- 
pose, and upon examining them more closely I do be- 
lieve they are nothing less than the false decretals of 
853 — nice material to write on! As for ink, alas, 
my friend, what should you say if it were my very 
heart-blood I write with ? It is black enough no 
doubt I 

I need not tell you that my letters will not bear 
keeping. They fade away in daylight. You can only 
preserve their contents by copying them on the spot. 

This present letter I intend forwarding to you by 
the hand of a remarkable personage — one of the many 
interesting acquaintances I have made here — who is 
about to revisit the earth. He is one of the famous 
knights of Charles the Bold, who met their death by 
the brave lances of the Swiss at the battle of Murten. 


A MESSAGE 


198 

Proud and noble is his bearing, and he goes fully 
armed, from the spur on his heel to the plume on his 
helmet; but the spurs do not clink, and the plume will 
not wave. He carefully keeps his visor closed, so that 
I have no knowledge of his face, although I seem to 
know him intimately from his conversation. I believe 
he feels ashamed. He cannot forget that he, the fa- 
mous champion, renowned for many a' victorious en- 
counter, met his death by the hand of an ordinary 
peasant. 

It is the consciousness of his high dignity which pre- 
vents him from mixing freely with people. He lives 
like a hermit almost, immured in his own pride. It 
was mere accident that gained me his notice. I was 
delivering a panegyric in some public locality concern- 
ing the merits of the wine of Beaune, stating that I had 
drunk it on the spot. When the company had dis- 
persed I found myself alone with him of the armor. 

“ You have been to Burgundy? ” he queried, hollow- 
voiced. 

“ I have, sir.” 

“And to Beaune, near Dijon?” 

“ I have, sir knight.” 

“ Cote d’or, thou glorious, never-to-he- forgotten 
country ! ” he murmured, beneath the visor. And turn- 
ing upon his heel he left me to my cogitations. 

That was the beginning of our acquaintance; I met 
him again, and he appeared to take to me. He gave 
me many a glowing description of the splendor sur- 
rounding Charles the Bold, of his glorious army, of the 
great future then apparently in store for Burgundy, of 
the battles and tournaments that had enriched him with 
trophies. But he never mentioned either Granson or 
Murten. On the other hand, he was anxious to learn 



A REMARKABLE PERSONAGE 

















fr 


r« t 




» r • ' ^ 


r 


. t • 


>9 


,.r: 


«■ V 


» 


: : ( 


^ r'^ ' ? ‘?- 

i^M> .' • ' ' •' ' ■ H 








V 






'•.r: 






- * f 




w • 

-I *• -^x-^'l! 


_* 


i>-f' 


-■TV 






i^. r.: 


- « 






, 0 * *i 




■*' V 


!• 


i>: 


Vf^ 

• * ftp 


^ ■'■' >■■ '"'■' -ii 

%k*.SiL nL'A^i/ ‘ ^ ^ . *.- ■St 


• f V » 

.•^<. ’.■■*■' X' 


-1 '^,1 


>5 






/?■ 


I I 


* /. 




;.;■ i 


K. 




'» I* 


\ ^ 


o ' • 4 ‘ 


r , 


> . 


I •' 


M 




> 9 




Ih^AK, 




y ' s, 

.?i^' 






V- i1 


i';k i 5ii0^ y :^, ■; ' i ..Li- '-i,^ ■ •, ■ •>.' ■•ij '- ^ 




i 

#■< 










s » 


iV, 


£»J-Vc 


H\ 


k. il^>4a(/ 

E. V • .-,y-’>. rO- 


f '«S 






t 1 1 




M 


A • 


. . 


i\ 




'- *• ' 


i 






i 


* r 


* • * 


r> 


;v: 




i '* .4 


-A 


>V 


•M- 


;te 


i4f^ 


»vr 


: f 


. \ 




• • *> ^ I • 
.j "• 


« • 





•ir’.i .1 s 




tr 


ir 


it. • - " 


..-i 




* • . 


Ij.iv>.-.,.C->J' 

' } ^'^ '• *• V V** "i 


* ♦ 


■. 5 »| 




!*•■ «l 


- •' *■ • • ■'*» V-i ’ ‘ ■ kl • T/<i’ < •;■' •:* »); .. '•;• I V- 




201 


FROM A LOST SOUL 

from me the present condition of the once famous Bur- 
gundy, the power and exploits of France, the modern 
perfections of the art of war, and the tactics of battles. 
He could listen to me for hours. 

But what interested him most, and gained me his 
confidence fully, was my telling him about my sojourn 
in the Cevennes, and the days I spent in exploring the 
charming hill-range deserving so fully its appellation of 
Cote d’or. Never enough of detail could I give him 
concerning my knowledge of those scenes of beauty. 
He would guide me, putting question upon question; 
but it was as if one question kept hovering on his lips 
which he dared not ask. My recollections brought me 
at last to Castle Roux. He started visibly as I named 
it, and grew silent, waiting breathlessly for what I 
might volunteer. 

Much might be said concerning that castle. It is a 
mountain fastness of ancient date, modern times having 
restored it in fanciful style; its owner being proud of 
it as of a relic of antiquity, and inhabiting it for several 
months in the year. The family is old, but the original* 
title of Roux has yielded to another name well known in 
the annals of France. 

The old castle, interesting in itself, is rich in curi- 
osities besides. I gave an account of all that might be 
seen within the venerable walls, describing the laby- 
rinthine passages, the queer, old, winding-stairs leading 
to all sorts of secret places, the lofty battlements com- • 
manding a view of the fertile tracts round about; I 
spoke of the dismal keeps hewn into the rock, where 
hapless prisoners for years might dream of the van- 
ished daylight; I mentioned the armory and the great 
hall filled with the cognizances of knighthood. In 
short I took my visored friend right through the cas- 


202 


A MESSAGE 

tie, one door only remaining closed to my roaming de- 
scription, that of the so-called red chamber which I 
myself had not entered. I had been told that never 
mortal foot should cross its threshold again. Cen- 
turies ago something terrible had happened in that 
room — what? I could not learn. The old steward, 
who acted as my guide on the occasion of my visit, 
communicative as he was in a general way, was most 
reserved concerning the past history of the family, but 
some account had been given me in the little village inn 
where I spent a couple of nights, and it clung to mem- 
ory. 

Concerning the secret chamber no one seemed to 
know anything, but I learned a wonderful story of the 
so-called “ Cold Hand.” Whenever the head of the 
family for the time being — so the tale ran — is about 
to commit some act detrimental to the honor or welfare 
of the house, he is warned at the decisive moment by the 
touch of a cold hand. At the very moment he stretches 
forth his own hand, be it in friendship or in enmity, 
an icy hand, invisible, is laid — not always upon his 
hand — sometimes on his cheek, on his neck, or upon 
the crown of his head. Through centuries and up to 
the present time the “ cold hand ” in this manner has 
swayed the fortunes of the family. The influence was 
experienced last when the late owner, who died but re- 
cently, was about to tie the nuptial knot. The festive' 
company was gathered in the great hall; he had just 
taken hold of the pen to sign the marriage-contract, 
when the icy touch of a cold hand closed upon his fin- 
gers. He staggered, turned white as a corpse, and 
dropped the pen. Neither prayer nor menace could 
prevail with him to make him fulfil his engagement ; the 
wedding never took place. 


203 


FROM A LOST SOUL 

I concluded by saying that it remained, of course, 
with the hearer to credit the story; some believed such 
family traditions — some did not; one could but form 
one’s own opinion. 

The visored knight, however, did not appear to think 
there were two ideas about it. His head shook slowly, ‘ 
and the hollow voice made answer : 

“It is true, man, every word of it. I am the last 
Count of Roux! . . . I am the Cold Hand! ” 

I shrunk back terrified and stood trembling, for so 
powerful are the instincts of mortal life that they cleave 
to us still: why should one shrink from a fellow-ghost 
in hell, where all hands are cold? 

The Count stood groaning. 

“ Hear me,” he said; “ I will tell you my story.” 

I could but listen, and he began': 

“ I have never yet discovered what cause brought 
me to this place of punishment, unless it be the fact 
that overmuch piety governed me in life. I was ruled 
by the priests, body and soul, and obeyed their behests 
blindly. 

“ Some centuries ago a colony from Provence had 
settled in the valleys of the Cevennes; they were quiet 
people, and patterns of diligence, the neighborhood in- 
deed had only gained by their presence. Peaceful and 
harmless, they seemed glad of the retreat they had 
found. But then they were heretics, forming a re^ 
ligious community, a remnant of the Albigenses in fact. 
At first they kept their creed to themselves; but by 
degrees, feeling settled in their new home, they con- 
fessed their heresies openly, attempting even to gain 
others to their views. They claimed the right of every 
Christian to read the Bible for himself; and repudiated 
anything that was not in keeping with the Scriptures 


A MESSAGE 


204 

and the teaching of the Apostles. That was danger- 
ous doctrine, and could not fail to call forth the resist- 
ance of the clergy. The straggle reached its height 
about the time I entered upon manhood. As an obe- 
dient son of the Church I closed my eyes to harm accru- 
ing to myself, and drove them mercilessly from my 
dominion. It was a crusade in small, a repetition of 
Albigensian persecution. The third part of my county 
was laid waste; devastation reigned where thrift and 
wealth had flourished, and I myself had done it. Noth- 
ing but the assurance that so dire a sacrifice would gain 
me a high place in heaven could uphold me through the 
pangs of loss, and the priests did their best to strengthen 
my belief. 

“ And yet I lived to rue it. The Church for which 
I had done so much would not do anything for me, at 
least not what I wanted. I wished to marry the lovely 
Lady Cyrille de Breville, but was refused dispensation 
because she was a distant cousin. Endless were the ^ 
difficulties, the humiliations I underwent. Entreaty, 1 
menace, promise of money availed not. My gracious I 
Liege interfered; it was in vain. I myself went on a 
pilgrimage to Rome. Two years had been spent in 
mortifying endeavor when at last I gained my end. 

“ Indeed, had it been in my power to recall the Al- 
bigenses, I would have done it, so wroth was 1. 

“ Cyrille then became my wife, doubly dear for the 
battle that had won her, and for the faithful endurance 
with which she clave to me. For I had had a danger- 
ous rival in the Count of Tournailles. There stood 
nothing in the way of a marriage with him; but she had 
preferred to wait till I could lead her to the altar. 
For some five or six years I was in a heaven of bliss. 
Our union had been blessed with two children, a boy 


FROM A LOST SOUL 205 

and a girl. What so few can say, we could: our hap- 
piness was complete. Then the time came when Duke 
Charles called his vassals to arms. Knighthood loved 
to obey, but it was a wrench to affection. I went. 

“ You know the history of that unfortunate war; 
how, having conquered Lorraine, we faced the Swiss. 
Granson, Murten — terrible names ! It is a mystery 
to me to this day how it came about; I doubt not that 
unearthly powers interfered. I fell at Murten, and 
lifting my eyes again found myself here. 

“ I, who had built upon the assurance of having a 
place in heaven, to be thrust into hell by the hand of 
a low-born churl ! I shall never get over the disgrace. 
And my loving wife, my darling children — stronger 
than the feeling of shame was the longing for them. 
It drove me back to earth, a restless, wandering soul. 

“ Never shall I forget that first spirit journey in 
mist and darkness. I drew near my own old home, 
a stranger, an outcast, sick and lonely at heart: feel- 
ing as those must feel who in the dead of night follow 
the ways of sin. Every noise made me tremble ; I shud- 
dered at the falling leaf. It was agony. Why did I 
not turn on my path and hie me back to hell ? You well 
may ask — but I was driven onward, a terrible con- 
straint upon me. Slowly I went from place to place, 
every well-known spot adding its individual pain; I 
drank the dregs of memory. At last I reached the cas- 
tle, on which the fitful moonlight cast a spectral glim- 
mer. 

“ What a change ? Surely I was the same I had 
always been, but there was something that made me 
feel a stranger to myself! Oh for tears to weep! I 
spurned them in the days of life, but now, what would 
I not have given for a healing tear? Vainest long- 


2o6 a message 

ing! I stood and trembled, horror-struck as at the 
sight of ghost; yet I myself was the ghost — let others 
fear! Was ever such a reception! The wind moaned 
in tree-tops, doors creaked, shadows glided through 
passages — I stood listening; the dogs whined, the cat- 
tle were restless, my once favored charger moved un- 
easily in his stall. 

“ As a thief I entered my own castle, stole up the 
staircase, and passed noiselessly from room to room. 
But the place felt forsaken, empty, and cold. My chil- 
dren, I must see them first. I found them in the sweet 
sleep of innocence, cradled in health and beauty. 
Never till that moment had I known the despair of 
love. My eyes beheld them, life of my life, yet mine 
no more. I longed to embrace them, press them to my 
heart, but dared not — simply dared not. I could but 
groan and hie me away. 

“ On I went, the well-known way, to my own old 
chamber with the nuptial couch. That room is locked 
now and never entered by mortal foot — the 'room of 
the mystery. Overpowered with feelings unutterable, 

I lingered on the threshold, so near to seeing her again, 
her! 

“ And I saw her — asleep in the arms of another, 
the arms of my former rival, the Count of Tournailles. 

I stood for a moment, rooted to the ground. How 
beautiful she was — beautiful as ever. But oh, th ) 
depth of torment! I, to whom her love had been 
pledged for ever and aye, forgotten, betrayed ! ‘ Hap- 

less woman ! ’ I groaned, ‘ is it thus thou keepest thy 
vow ? is it thus thou art loyal to my memory ? ’ 

“ I stood clenching my fists in helpless rage, and 
gnashing my teeth. What could I do? Let me wake 
her at least; she shall see me! And stretching forth 


FROM A LOST SOUL 207 

my hand across the well-known bed, I laid it upon her 
uncovered shoulder. She started at the icy touch; she 
saw me; I must have offered an awful sight, for she 
gave a scream rousing echoes of horror, and lay faint- 
ing on the pillow. I vanished. 

“ But my wrath was boundless. From that hour I 
persecuted her ruthlessly; when she expected it least 
the touch of my hand was upon her. She never saw 
m,e again, but I think that made my presence all the 
more horrible to her. At night especially I would be 
near her, watching that never again she might rest in 
his arms. My cold hand, forbidding, was between 
them. They went about like ghosts themselves, worn 
and harassed; the grave seemed yawning to receive 
them. The time came when they could not bear it any 
longer, and resolved to separate. She entered a clois- 
ter, and there my hand was powerless. In that peace- 
ful retreat her child was born, and from him are de- 
scended the present owners of Castle Roux. 

“ My own children drooped and died. That was 
the last great sorrow touching me in the upper world. 
I stood by their bier. That turned my heart; I felt 
something like regret; perhaps after all I had been too 
hard upon her. A dead husband is no husband, and 
has nothing to claim; whereas she was in the fullness of 
life, young and fitted for joy, owing duty to nature and 
to the world. In voluntary penance I resolved hence- 
forth to watch over Cyrille’s son, and his children’s 
children after him. It was a sacred vow, and I have 
kept it since. This, then, is the ‘ cold hand of Roux.’ 
An unmistakable presentiment, akin to direct revela- 
tion, informs me of any hurtful step a member of the 
family may be about to take; and then I cannot rest 
in hell, but am driven back to the world to interfere 
13 


208 A MESSAGE 

at the decisive moment. With few exceptions, every 
scion of the family, man or woman, has felt my hand; 
and it will be so till the last of them has been gathered 
to his fathers. 

“ At the present moment the call is again upon me, 
urging me to revisit the land of the living. What it 
is that requires my presence I cannot tell; but I know 
my time, and the cold hand will never fail of its mis- 
sion.” 

Thus spoke the Count; and having finished, he fell a 
prey to silence, leaving me to myself. I expect to meet 
him again, and doubt not that he will take charge of ^ 
this letter. But thou, my friend, hast nothing to fear 
from the cold hand of Roux. 

You cannot ask me, but the question would seem 
natural: “Will you not return to earth yourself? if - 
others are coming, why not you ? ” I hardly know 
what to say. It is not an impossible thought that I 
too might be driven some day to revisit the upper 
world. I say driven, for no one goes unless urged by 
an inward necessity — unmistakable and irresistible. i 

Should the compelling need at any time lay hold of ‘ 

me, I should have no choice but to go. I trust it may j 

never be, for it would be adding new pangs to the mis- ^ 

ery I endure. I expect that the author of that need is 
none but Satan himself; for surely the Lord in heaven ^ 

has nothing to do with it. The bare thought of - such a j 

possibility brings back all the horrors of death, and 2 

hope cries out. Let me never quit hell ! 

Stop and consider the awful poverty of hope that has 
nothing left but this ! 


LETTER XVI. 


In Italy the glories of nature reach their perfection at 
eve. My mother not being much of a walker, Lily and 
I would stroll about by ourselves. Venice, Florence, 
Naples, — enchanting memories! Not now, I mean, 
but in the days of life. 

Those Italian evenings were an indescribable mix- 
ture of beauty and delight; nature a very cradle of 
peace — and peace speaking to my soul. For I had 
Lily with me; and no matter what scenes of humanity 
might surround us, she and I seemed alone at such mo- 
ments. 

The most perfect delights I tasted at Florence. We 
visited the Piazza del Gran Duca, the center of life 
in that city. Surrounded by magnificent buildings, the 
place radiant with light, you feel as though you had en- 
tered some lordly hall, gigantic in size, and of royal 
splendor, roofed over by the starry sky. 

Here you see that ancient palace, with its grand 
mediaeval tower, which has looked down upon many a 
stormy gathering in the days of the republic, upon 
Dante too, Michael Angelo, Savonarola. In front of 
it are two colossal statues — David and Hercules. 
Not far distant — on the very spot, tradition says, 
where Savonarola suffered death on the pyre, — a foun- 
tain sends up her sparkling jets, guarded by Tritons 
and Fauns, and surmounted by a figure of Neptune, the 
ruler of seas. Again, a little farther, stands the eques- 
trian statue of Cosmo di Medici, cast in bronze, a mas- 
ter-work by Giambologna. On the opposite side a 
209 


210 


A MESSAGE 


flight of steps, presided over by a pair of antique lions, ‘ 
leads you into the glorious Loggia dei Lanzi. Here, i 
by the light of lamps, you behold some of Italy’s no- i 
blest treasures of art — Perseus, the Deliverer, by Ben- 1 
venuto Cellini; Judith and Holofernes; Hercules and j 
the Centaur; the famous marble group by Giam- ^ 
bologna, representing the Rape of the Sabines; and 
Ajax, with the dying Patroclus in his arms. In the 4 
background you see a number, of Vestals of more than f 
human size. These statues, seemingly alive and ^ 
breathing in the magic light, cast over you a wondrous I 
spell, holding you transfixed. The fact that a collection | 
of such priceless works of art can be open to the public f 
freely — entrusted to that instinctive reverence for I 
things beautiful to which the lowest even .... 3 
But fool that I am, going off into aesthetics! Am I ^ 
not in hell! Nay, laugh not, but pity me, for I could j 
not join in your merriment. j 

So great is the power of memory; it is upon me, 
dragging me back to scenes long dead and gone, j 
Memories? what are they but my life — my all! But 
they are bare of enjoyment; they are as a cup of poison : 
that will not kill, but which fills you with horror and ' 
unutterable despair. i 

It was with a deep inward joy, lifting us as it were 
to that height where reality and enchantment meet, : 
that Lily and I moved slowly through that hall of art. j 
We hardly spoke. And when satisfaction for the mo- • 
ment had her fill, we escaped to the dimly-lit arcades > 
of the Palazzo degli Uffizi. There words would come; I 
the charm was broken, though its spell remained, i 
How much we had to say to one another; how sweet, 
how tender was Lily’s trustful voice! As her arm 
rested on mine I seemed to hear the very beat of her ; 


21 I 


FROM A LOST SOUL 

heart. And what delight to me to open her mind to 
the treasures she had seen, to rouse new feelings of 
beauty in that waking soul, so responsive and so pure ! 

When the shadows of night had deepened, we would 
return home, passing the stately cathedral. Stillness 
had settled, spreading wings of peace. Maria del 
Fiore they call this church, and truly it is a fitting name. 
Florence means the flowering city, and this sacred pile 
is a very blossom of beauty in her midst. It needed 
one hundred and sixty years for the cathedral’s stately 
growth. Her cupola overlooks not only the whole of 
the town, but the whole of the radiant valley; the 
splendid belfry, rich in sculpture, lifting its graceful 
front to a height of three hundred feet. Not far from 
it stands that ancient baptistry, with its wondrous gate 
of bronze, which, as Michael Angelo said, was worthy 
of being the gate of Paradise. In front of it there is 
a rough-hewn stone bench. There Lily w^ould often 
rest when tired by our wanderings. There Dante had 
sat, dreaming about Paradise and hell, and thinking of 
Beatrice. 

One evening I asked Lily which part of the city 
pleased her best. 

“ The Piazza is very beautiful,” she said; “ but after 
all it is a far-off sort of beauty, carrying one back to 
heathen times; here I feel at home, the very stones 
breathing Christianity. The difference is very strange; 
at this place the living faith takes hold of me that, roam 
where you will in the world, you must return to the 
Lord for content. The world with all its glory can- 
not satisfy us as He can.” 

“ Ah, Lily, w^ould I could believe like you ! ” I cried 
involuntarily, pressing her hand till it must have pained 
her — I scarcely knew it. 


212 


A MESSAGE 

Suppressing an exclamation she looked at me with 
earnest surprise, saying uneasily: 

“ Oh, Philip, don’t ! as compared to you I am but an 
ignorant child.” 

“ Yes, Lily, but your childlike heart is the treasure 
I envy. Is it not an old blessed truth that to children 
i is given what is hidden from the wise? Perhaps you 
can answer me a question, Lily; it may be all plain to 
you, though many of the great and learned make it a 
bewildering riddle. What is being a Christian? ” 

“ Dear Philip, what should it be but having Christ in 
your heart.” 

These words of hers cut me to the soul. How often 
had I felt that it was Satan, or at least an evil spirit that 
dwelt in me. 

“ Yes,” said Lily, as if to herself in quiet rapture, 
“ that is it — so simple, and yet so great. Him alone I 
desire, and, having Him, I have father and mother and 
all the world. He makes His abode with me that in 
Him I may live and move, and have my being. He 
alone is my Saviour, my Lord, my all.” And softly 
she added after a while: “ Lord Christ, let me be true 
to thee, till thou take me home ! ” 

A deep silence followed. The memories of child- 
hood pressed around me, as if wrestling for my heart. 
I was moved — unutterably moved. I felt as though 
the tears were rising to my eyes, and, hushing all other 
feelings, the one thought took shape : She is the angel 
that is to lead thee back to God. 

“ But, dearest Philip,” said Lily, after a long pause, 
“ that question could not have come from your heart; I 
do not understand you.” 

I made some reply, scarcely knowing what I said. 
I felt her arm trembling within mine; she stopped short; 


FROM A LOST SOUL 213 

we were standing in front of one of those little ma- 
donnas, illumined by a lamp. 

“ Let me look you in the face,” she said. “ I felt as 
if some stranger were speaking to me. . . .No, 

I am sure; it is your own self — you could never 
change ! ” 

And she laughed at her own foolish fancy, as she 
called it. 

Lily’s laughter, at any time as brightest music to 
my ears, broke the evil spell. I felt light-hearted 
again, the shadows had vanished before the health- 
giving sun. 

“ Never to you ! ” I cried, drawing her close, “ and 
you are my own little friend, so good, so true, intended 
to be a blessing to me in life and in death ! ” 

I have met her again, I have met Annie ! She sat 
apart, strangely occupied. Her long hair fell about 
her; she was taking little shells and bits of reeds out 
of the dripping tresses. Her slight garment had 
slipped from her shoulder. Oh, horror! I saw the 
brand of shame disfiguring the snowy skin. It was a 
mark red as blood, and the conscience of blood-guilti- 
ness raised its voice in my soul. 

As an open page her heart lay revealed to my sight. 
Shame and despair dwelt therein. But her life’s his- 
tory was not written there. Her face, once so lovely, 
now so degraded, bore the traces of it; and with the, 
brand upon her shoulder ended the terrible account. 
Her fault, at first, was but this, that she loved me too 
fondly, trusted me too foolishly. It was I who had 
wronged her, ruined her in return for that love. She 
had perished in the torrent of sin, carried from shame 
to shame, from despair to despair, sinking at last in a 


214 A MESSAGE’ 

watery grave. The knowledge of it was as a fire con- 
suming my heart. 

I stood gazing, unable to turn away my eyes, though 
the sight should kill me. But suddenly I felt as if 
my soul were rent asunder; light, as a bursting flame, 
flashed through me, leaving me trembling, a chill chas- 
ing the glow. A horrible thought had possessed me ! 
Those features — of whom did they remind me? 
Fearful conviction, Martin resembled Annie — was as 
like her as a son may be like his mother! Had not 
Martin’s mother, moreover, been a strolling actress, 
who had drowned herself? And Martin’s secret — 
that secret which should make all plain between us — 
reconcile us, — was this it? Yes, yes, I could not 
doubt 1 

Then Martin was her child — and mine 1 And I 
had ruined not only h®r, but him, my child, my son 1 
This, then, was the reason w’hy the boy had fascinated 
me so strangely. I had seen myself in him. That is 
why I had loved him — to passion almost — in spite of 
his wild and wayward temper 1 This wild — ay, evil 
nature was my own. It was thus that God punished 
me in him. Is it not written that He visits the in- 
iquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third 
and fourth generation? It is terrible. And the worst 
is this — not the mother only, but my own child I The 
night of madness is not known in hell, else that hour 
must have plunged me into it. 

But the doubt remained. I must have it solved at 
any cost. I hastened towards her. But she, at my 
first movement lifted her eyes, saw me, and fled, horror 
winging her feet. She was gone. 

“ O for mountains to cover me, to hide me ! ” I 
wailed in anguish ; but there is no hiding in hell, not a 



ONCE SO LOVELY, NOW SO DEGRADED 




»»■ 


•mV 


*. > 


’Ji' j 




■ 1 ' 






■‘> ▼. 





1 •».*•'’•.■ 








I* 


gP'ii ^ 

j*- . • , ■ .>'•>; •' A'. ■ ' >. 


■'-^ • * ^ 







« * 


< ' I 





V ’I 




, k\ 


- W: . ■ .-i,..' '*(!■:.; ••/, 



« 


V’ ... . A’W 

/S . F . . r V- ; 1 ► - AaL 

li^ ^■dun?^ . i 


• ^jtf ■ t ♦c. .i ** -iV 

■’ ■> ^ 







f> ; 




I •• 




• c I 


. .-^^pum- 


M* * 


» r 


>»• 




r X. 


% I 









liT J»r 


■^'i 




1 


FROM A LOST SOUL 217 

corner where in unseen solitude one might wrestle with 
one’s grief. 

I have never yet succeeded in writing a letter at one 
sitting. I take pen and paper as the longing seizes me, 
and jot down what specially occupies my mind — the 
thoughts that assail it ; then turn away, to continue some 
other time at longer or shorter interval. I never write 
unless some inward necessity prompts me; yet if I did 
not somehow court that necessity, I do not think I ever 
should write. This will partly explain why these let- 
ters are no continuous account, but broken pictures only 
■ — a true mirror of myself, who am but a wreck now, 
shattered and undone. 

I remember that of all days I disliked Sunday most; 
on that day I used to dine at my mother’s, and, what I 
thought worse, was expected to accompany her to 
church. I say worse, not because I disliked hearing ser- 
mons, but because I was never sure that some word 
might not rouse unpleasant sensations within me, fol- 
lowed by thoughts which I preferred keeping in mem- 
ory’s tomb, rather than let them run riot with fear and 
regret. In the hubbub of daily life it was easy to keep 
down serious thoughts; but on Sundays and at church 
they would be heard, making me feel that I had missed 
my true destiny, that I was not what I should have been. 
What was the use of such thoughts, since no man can 
undo his past? 

But worst of all were Communion Sundays, for my 
mother would have me attend. She was so very care- 
ful of proprieties, and I did not like to grieve her; so 
I went, feeling all the time as though I were being 
dragged to the pillory. Bad as I was, I was no scoffer; 


2i8 


A MESSAGE 


I felt there was something holy, and that I had no part 
in it. I would far rather not have partaken. The 
service was positively painful to me. I tried to go 
through it unconcerned; but this was a case of the 
spirit being stronger than the flesh. I knew what I was 
about ! It took me several days to get over the uneasi- 
ness created in my mind; I would shake off impressions 
— find myself again, as I called it — in a whirl of 
amusement. 

The memory of one of these Sundays is present with 
me; and why? I see a slender girl in the bloom of 
youth, her beauty transfigured to something of un- 
earthly luster, uplifted to the spiritual. I see her; the 
fair head drooping, the silky wealth of her hair falling 
about her as a veil. Hers is a higher loveliness than 
mere regularity of features, and there is that in her 
eye which keeps you a prisoner to something above, be- 
yond. That deep gaze of hers is all worship, all adora- 
tion: it is herself, her soul. But there is more; that 
smile of hers is as a ray of light; you cannot tell whether 
it hovers on her lips merely or shines from her eyes; it 
is there, as a beam from heaven lighting up her face. 

That was Lily in her sixteenth year; she too is about 
to take the sacrament. She does not do so lightly — 
I judge from the blushes on her face, from the heaving 
of her tender form. Yes; she too is uneasy, approach- 
ing tremblingly; but how different from me! It was 
her first communion. 

I had risen early against my wont; the disquietude 
of my mind would not let me rest; somehow my heart 
would beat. I set about dressing — what evil-doer 
was that looking at me from the glass ! I was quite un- 
hinged, and hastened downstairs. In the breakfast- 
room I met Lily; she was alone and rather pale. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 219 

“ What is it, my child? ” I said; “ are you not well? ” 

She smiled. Ah ! that smile, it used to be my heaven. 
But woe is me that I thought not of a higher heaven, 
for now I am left desolate of either. 

“ Yes, quite well,” she said gently. And she went 
to fetch my mother. 

I stood lost in thought. The evident emotion in 
which I had surprised her was a riddle to be solved. 
It was always a delight to me to try and understand 
Lily’s deepest being; and the attempt at the present 
moment was doubly welcome. I preferred reading her 
heart to looking into mine. 

My eye presently fell upon a little book lying open 
on the table. I glanced at it, and lo ! it explained the 
mystery ! This is what I read : 

“ In the sacrament of the Lord’s Table the Saviour 
gives Himself to the believing soul. It is a holy com- 
munion, blessed beyond utterance. The love of earthly 
bride and bridegroom is a poor human type. Christ 
is the heavenly Bridegroom, and the believer’s heart 
the bride. The love that unites them is unspeakable, 
filling the soul with a foretaste of heaven’s perfect 
bliss.” 

Now I understood, or at least guessed, what was 
passing in Lily. Her soul was moved as the soul of a 
bride at the nearness of the bridegroom to whom she is 
willing to belong. She had always loved her Saviour, 
but a new love was upon her; never had she been so 
happy, and never so full of disquietude. She longs for 
Him, but is afraid; she stands trembling, yet knows she 
is safe with the lover of her soul, and to Him alone 
will she give herself. 

You have heard of the gardens of Jericho — at any 
rate you have read of the lilies of the field, which toil 


220 


A MESSAGE 


not and do not spin, and yet are more beautiful than 
Solomon in his glory. 

Lily and I — we used to watch these lilies growing 
in the valley of Jericho — Lily, the fairest of her sis- 
ters. She told me a story one evening as we walked 
amid the flowers. I never knew whence she had her 
stories. I often felt as though a Higher Being spoke 
through her, even God Himself, and I would listen with 
a kind of devotion, never questioning her words, as 
though they were a revelation. Even now her musical 
accents tremble in my ear, as I recall the story she then 
told me: 

“ A man lay dying. The world vanished from his 
sight, and he was left alone with the question, 
‘ Whither art thou going? ’ — that question filling him 
with fear and trembling. 

“ He lay writhing on his bed of agony, when sud- 
denly he beheld ten shapes closing him in, cold and 
pitiless — God’s holy commandments. And one after 
another they lifted up their voice. The first saying, 

‘ Unhappy man, how many gods hast thou allowed to 
enter into thy sinful heart? ’ The second, ‘ How many 
idols hast thou set up in His stead?’ The third, 

‘ How often hast thou taken the name of the Lord thy 
God in vain ? ’ The fourth, ‘ How hast thou kept the 
Sabbath day, and caused others to keep it ? ’ The 
fifth, ‘ How hast thou honored thy father and mother, 
and those that were set in authority over thee ? ’ The 
sixth, ‘ How hast thou acted by thy brother, doing unto 
him as thou wouldst he should do unto thee ? ’ And on 
they went, the ten of them, each with the voice of judg- 
ment, confounding his soul. 

“ And the dying man, anguished and hopeless, had 
not a word to say. He felt convicted, and knew he was 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


221 


lost. At last he cried despairingly, ‘ I know I have 
sinned, but can you not leave me to die in peace? ’ 

“ And they made answer, ‘ We cannot leave thee un- 
less One will take our place, to whom you shall yield 
yourself body and soul to all eternity, abiding by His 
judgment. Will you do that ? ’ 

“ The sick man considered; he was afraid of the One 
even, and his heart, beating feebly, shook with fear. 
Yet at last he said, ‘ I would rather have the One judge 
me, since I cannot answer you ten.’ 

“ And behold at his word the dread accusers van- 
ished, and there appeared in their stead One, holy and 
compassionate, just and forgiving. And the dying sin- 
ner looked to Him. Death had a hold of him al- 
ready, but he felt the breath of life. He remembered 
all at once what in far-off days he had heard of One 
dying for many, recalling the holy lessons of his child- 
hood at his mother’s knee, when she told him of the 
Lord that is mighty to save. He had forgotten it, liv- 
ing a life of folly and of sin; but it was coming back to 
him even now. And looking again, behold he knew 
Him that stood by his side. 

“ And faith gathered strength, a smile of blessed 
trust lighting up his face ; and with dying lips he cried : 

“‘Let me be thine, Lord, — thine only — now and 
for ever! Have mercy on me, O Christ, and redeem 
my spirit 1 ’ 

“ He sank in death, but peace had been given him.” 


LETTER XVIL 


I REMEMBER times of true contrition in my life; not 
only when I felt cast down, but when I experienced 
also anguish of soul. The burden on my heart at such 
moments would almost crush me. I did see the noth- 
ingness and wretchedness of my pursuits; I felt I was 
on the road that would lead me to perdition. I seemed 
to hear voices crying : “ Return — ah, return while yet 
it is time! ” And my soul made answer: “ I will re- 
turn before it is too late.” It was not too late while 
such promptings urged me. The deep unrest within 
was tending toward peace. I might have come forth 
a new creature from the conflict had I but taken up 
the struggle with sincerity — but I did not; weak en- 
deavors at best were all. And sometimes when I could 
not but consider my sins moodily, even sorrowfully, 
thoughts of levity would dart through me, pushing 
aside the tender stirrings of life eternal; and with re- 
newed carelessness I plunged deeper than before into 
the whirl of amusement. Indeed, from my own ex- 
perience, and from what I have seen in others, I can 
testify to the awful truth that an evil spirit has power 
over human souls. How often some one has formed 
the best of resolutions; he has turned from sin, and is 
anxious to seek the way of life; but the tempter enters 
his heart, and he falls deeper than before. 

And then to say there is no devil 1 

Devil? Yes; it is no use mincing an awful fact — 
it is he who drags man to hell. There is a devil, and 
the number of demons is legion. 

222 


FROM A LOST SOUL 223 

But, say you, how is it that God — the strong, right- 
eous, pitiful God — allows the evil one such terrible 
power over human souls? Can He be the all-loving, 
all-merciful Father, if He does not snatch them from 
the destroyer even at the moment of their weakness? 

Do you doubt God, my friend? Was it not He who 
sent His good angels to watch the door of your heart ; 
who put all that trouble and anguish into you; who 
made you feel, and tremble at, the burden of your sin? 
Ay, it is His Spirit who is at work in us when we feel 
we have done wrong; when we long to rise to a better 
life. It is He who shows us that we can rise, if only 
we will ! 

But our will is at fault — our sincerity. That is it ! 
What God does for us even at such decisive moments 
is immeasurably more than what the devil can do. 
But to God we listen not, great as His love is; we 
care not for the riches of grace with which He tries to 
save us; whereas the devil need but pipe, and we 
straightway are ready to do his bidding. 

Is it to be marveled at that there is nothing left for us 
but to go to hell ? 

I have more to say; but how shall I say it? Will 
words not end in a wail of despair? 

In those happy days when I had Lily by my side, 
I often gave myself up to the enchanting thought that 
she was the good angel of my life, sent by God’s infinite 
mercy, and that through her His love would lead me to 
heaven. That view of our relation was very sweet, 
and often filled me with the best of intentions. But if 
my heart was touched, it was but surface emotion ; I was 
willing enough to be led by Lily; but I cared not to be 
led to God. 


A MESSAGE 


224 

Lily’s mission, then, failed of its object, and there 
was no help for me. 

Since I have come to this dreadful place my eyes 
have been opened to see that if I had yielded to the 
strivings of grace, and had given my heart to God, Lily 
would not have died in the flower of life; that, on the 
contrary, God’s gift of happiness was coming to me 
through her. 

Even in those latter days, when the shadow of death 
was upon her — ay, and on me too, it would not have 
been too late. A voice now says: Had I repented of 
my evil course — had I turned to God even as a prodi- 
gal — grace was at hand, and my Lily would not have 
left me. Death would have been stayed, having done 
its work of rousing the sinner. God himself would 
have given me Lily and the blessing of her love, and 
a new happy life might have followed. 

But no. God’s means of grace could not break 
down the wall I had built about my heart. I would 
not turn from sin. What could she do but die? 
There was no other way of saving her from a life with 
me — a life that would have wronged her lovely soul. 
Her pure-robed spirit must needs wing its flight to 
heaven. Lily could but die, and it was well that she 
died. 

Well for her! I say so with the honesty of despair. 
How I hate myself! — ready to dash myself to pieces, ^ 
were it but possible. All is fraught with regret wher- 
ever I turn; but this one thought that Lily was meant 
to be mine for a life of happiness is enough to turn all 
future existence into a hell of hells. God meant to 
bless me had He but found me worthy. Earth might 
have been heaven, and a better heaven to come! Do 


FROM A LOST SOUL 225 

you understand now what hell is, and the awful misery 
of its retribution ? 

I have lately been to a ball. You know that I have 
always been more or less of a ladies’ man; but I did 
not frequent ball-rooms over long. I soon got tired of 
that sort of pleasure; perhaps I was too heavy — too 
much of an athlete, to be famous for dancing. In early 
youth, however, I loved it passionately — forgetting 
everything, earth and heaven, in the whirl of an intoxi- 
cating waltz. 

But in my riper years I raised objections to danc- 
ing. I always looked at the aesthetic side of things. 
I began to urge the unbecomingness of going on danc- 
ing for ten, fifteen, years, or more. Let people dance 
for two or three years and be satisfied. The pleasure 
might be compared then to the fluttering of the but- 
terfly amid the roses of spring; there is fitness in that 
on first quitting the chrysalis of childhood. Let young 
people dance — becoming dances that is ! For them 
it is a natural and even beautiful pastime — an over- 
flowing of the exuberance of life, and an innocent pleas- 
ure to their untaught perception. 

However it was a grand ball which I visited lately, 
and most fashionably attended. The society, to be sure, 
was mixed, but that also gave a zest. The illumi- 
nation was perfect, considering our state of light. For 
even with a thousand chandeliers we cannot rise above 
a crepuscule; the tapers emit a false light only, mak- 
ing no impression whatever upon the reigning gloom. 
A good band was in attendance, but all their efforts pro- 
duced nO' sound. Everything being illusive here, music 
naturally is left to imagination. One thinks one hears, 
and falls to dancing. 

14 


226 


A MESSAGE 


The ladies were gorgeously attired in fashions repre- 
sentmg several centuries; it almost looked like a mas- 
querade; but these fair ones were only true, each to her 
time. And on the other hand, an ‘attempt at masking 
would have been poor deception, since all their 
pomp and vanity was transparent ! Whatever their 
finery, you saw the unclothed woman beneath — some 
bewitchingly beautiful, others more like mummies than 
anything else. We marched round and round the spa- 
cious saloon, exchanging ladies at given times, so that 
one had the pleasure of touching hands with all the fair 
ones present, and forming their acquaintance. 

What a surprise! In my dining-room at home I 
had a fine picture by a well-known artist. It repre- 
sented a Roman beggar girl in, life-size, three-quarter 
length. She is to be found in endless pictures, bear- 
ing dates from 1835-1842; for that she was in high 
favor as a model need scarcely be said. She was of 
true Roman blood, born at Trastevere — a fine type of 
Roman beauty — her face and figure, her grace and 
bearing, being equally admirable. And her rags, 
which she understood how to arrange in a manner so 
truly picturesque, were scarcely less charming. Fash- 
ionable ladies, with all their getting up, looked poor 
and insipid by the side of that beggar girl 1 And some- 
how she appeared proud of her rags, and would not 
have exchanged them for the most elegant attire; for 
she knew that to them she owed half her attraction, 
her independence and liberty besides. Paolina she was 
called; but among the strangers at Rome she went by 
the name of la reina dei mendicandi, the beggar queen, 
or simply La Reina. Behold now the original of my 
picture — La Reina in person 1 

One evening, as I was walking through one of the 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


227 

more quiet streets of Rome, a young woman, hastening 
up behind me, caught my arm tremblingly, imploring 
me to protect her. It was La Reina, Of course I 
did protect her, seeing her home,; arm in arm we went 
through the ill-lit streets, and friendliness seemed nat- 
ural. I did not know La Reina, but with a candor 
found in Italy only, she explained to me her position. 
She was happy now, she said — very happy. Most 
people treated her kindly, no one dared think ill of her, 
and she was as free as the bird in the air. So long as 
she could wear her rags with honor, she would not 
exchange them for the velvet and gold of a princess. 
More than this even she told me, though without men- 
tioning names; she had had the most enticing offers, 
but — sia henito Iddio — she had refused them all. 
Arrived at her humble dwelling, she kissed me with a 
frank trustfulness, as a child might, and we parted. I 
subsequently had her painted. 

After some years La Reina suddenly vanished. She 
had risen, as she said, above many a temptation — 
the proud beggar girl; but of one thing she had not 
thought, the possibility of love! Heaven seemed open; 
she loved, she yielded — and happiness was gone. In 
her rags she had been a queen — in silks and jewels she 
was but a slave. And worse was at hand. She was 
betrayed, and cruelly disillusioned. Then all the nat- 
ural gentleness of her disposition forsook her; a demon 
awoke instead, not shrinking even from vulgar crime. 
She thirsted for revenge. She was still a marvel of 
beauty, no longer gracious, but majestic. With an icy 
heart, yet burning in vindictiveness, she gathered her 
skirts about her, succeeding presently in making a fool 
of an old rake of a prince. For a moment only she 
stood at the height of splendor, meteorlike, but long 


228 


A MESSAGE 

enough to obtain the satisfaction she craved. With a 
crash it ended, and she never rose again. 

Now she was once more beside me, resting her arm 
in mine; but what ^ difference between the present 
moment and that far-off evening when I escorted her 
through the dusky streets of Rome. I had recognized 
her on the spot, and yet how she was changed ! Invol- 
untarily my feelings shaped themselves to a sigh. 
There is no happiness but that of innocence after all! 
But when I bent to her, whispering, La Reina! Sta 
sempre in ricordanza! she answered with trembling 
haste, as though overcome with the recollection, O 
state zitto, zitto! NeW inferno tutf e finito! La 
gioja, V incur anza V amor ^ e la speranza! 

As I was about to quit the ball, I was stopped by 
a man, to all appearance a roue of the first order, ad- 
dressing me somewhat flippantly : “ I see you are at 
home in this sort of thing; but have you assisted at 
the ball? That is quite another affair, rendering all 
this stupid and tame; it will come round again pres- 
ently! ” 

I did not understand his hint, nor did I care to ask 
for an explanation. But I was to find out before long. 

For as the time draws near when utter darkness 
sinks upon hell, a madness of dissipation possesses 
the fashionable — a straining of all efforts to make the 
most of the respite, as it were. This rage of amuse- 
ment is vanity, like everything, and fruitful of pain 
only. But, nevertheless, the greed of pleasure abounds 
‘ — plays, orgies, and immodest pastimes succeeding one 
another in a perfect whirl; all is forgotten, save one 
thing, intoxicating and stunning the senses. Nothing so 
wild, so frantic, so shameless, but it is had recourse to 
at this period; and he who most successfully throws off 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


229 

restraint is the hero of the day. That well-bred society 
with difficulty preserves its reputation, you may imagine ; 
for none so well-bred but they yield to the contagion 
of the ball. They only try to preserve appearances, 
that is all! 

There is something remarkably like it upon earth — 
I mean the revelry before Lent. The season of dead 
darkness is our Lent, but alas it leads to no Easter 
beyond ! The devil surely has raised up that porch by 
which men enter upon a solemn time — the carnival of 
fools; here then we have it to perfection, winding up 
with the ball. 

And what is it like, this ball? — beginning in pro- 
priety of course, the ladies all smiles, the men pictures 
of ease. The dancing at first is most orderly, following 
a gently-swelling rhythm, but as a rising sea is its excite- 
ment. Look at their eyes — at the panting mouth half- 
open ! More tightly they clutch one another. . . . 

Dead darkness is at hand; they heed it not in mad- 
dened whirl. Voluptuousness is all but one with tor- 
ment; they dance as though a taskmaster drove them 
on to it — the taskmaster of sin. The greed is theirs 
— satisfaction alone is withheld. 

See the fair ones bereft of beauty, the gracious gar- 
ments draggled and soiled ! Is there a more awful 
sight than unwomanly woman, hollow-eyed, corpse-com- 
plexioned, with dishevelled hair and tattered clothes? 
As for men — the wild beast nature is upon them. 

It is a mercy, that darkness in the end envelops 
it all — falling suddenly — and covering, like the del- 
uge of yore, what is only fit to be covered. See the 
end of pleasure unsanctified! The night of death en- 
gulfs them, and what then? — what then? 


LETTER XVIIL 


You are aware no doubt, and have experienced it your- 
self, that the perfume of a flower will wake memories 
— sweet happy feelings especially; but slumbering 
passions also obey the call. If on earth this may mean 
a kind of agonizing delight, here it is hell ! 

Do not imagine that there are flowers in this place; 
there are none here — none whatever — no growth of 
any kind! Even faded flowers are of the earth. O 
foolish men I yours is a flower-yielding world, and you 
will not see that, with all its trouble and sorrow, it is 
a blessed abode 1 It is the exceeding love of your 
Father in heaven, overflowing continually, which cre- 
ates the flowers. Those millions of perfumed blossoms 
are the vouchers of love eternal — the sparkling pearls 
of the cup which runneth over, given by God to man. 

Flowers below and stars above — happy are ye who 
yet walk in life. But you follow your path, heedless 
of flowers and heedless of stars, engrossed with your 
paltry self and its too often worthless concerns. O 
foolish men 1 

No, there is no blossoming here; but it is part of 
our torment to be haunted occasionally by the far-off 
perfume of some flower. Imagination of course, but 
all the more potent is the effect. The sweet incense has 
power to call up, not feelings merely, but visions on 
which we love to dwell — the spell of vanished enjoy- 
ment. Can you conceive it : the fulness of past delight 
returning upon you as by magic, yourself being a prey 
to death and boundless misery? 

230 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


231 


It may be a rich carnation. The fragrance even 
now will speak to me of her who wore It, and of her 
glowing eyes. 

Or a jasmine of intoxicating richness. In a sum- 
mer-house, overhung with the sweet-scented shrub, I 
found the fair-haired beauty. My heart was full, and 
I longed to clasp her, to be drowned in the depth of 
her sea-blue eyes. I was spellbound, the dreamy Influ- 
ence of the flowers stealing through the noontide sun. 

Or again, a luscious heliotrope. We were alone in 
the garden on a summer eve, a balmy twilight about 
us. I was to leave her the following morning; she 
being tied by ungenlal wedlock. Her beauty was rich 
as the southern clime ; her dark eyes mournful, but own- 
ing a wondrous charm; her smile the saddest I ever 
knew. She plucked one of the flowers that steeped the 
night with fragrance and gave It me — calling me her 
truest friend. 

Such Is the language of flowers to me, coming on 
the waves of their perfume; and the sweeter such 
memories, the more cruelly they torture the mind, 
raising passion to madness, although we are unclothed 
of all bodily sense, and there Is no healing for the suf- 
fering soul. 

It Is only the strong-scented flowers that move 
me so powerfully; their gentler sisters, the violet and 
heartsease, touch me not. Yet one I may except — 
an only one; It also brings pain, but I bless It. 1 
have often been followed of late by tender wafts as 
from a rose. It Is a particular rose, and I see it even 
now. A most delicate blush suffuses its petals; what 
color there Is might be called an ethereal glow at 
its heart; to the cursory glance It Is white, but I 
know better. Lily once gave me that rose; that is, 


232 A MESSAGE 

I asked her for it; I do not suppose she would have 
thought of giving it to me of her own accord. It 
was at Venice one day; we were at St. Mark’s, stand- 
ing in front of that altar sacred to the Madonna, with 
its famous • Byzantine paintings. We were alone; a 
crippled beggar had just limped away, having called 
down “ Our Lady’s ” blessing upon us. A holy feel- 
ing stole over me — holy perhaps because the cripple 
had called Lily la sua sposa. She had not heard it, 
or had not understood it. There she stood with the 
rose in her hand — the blushing flower being a sweet 
image of herself. 

“ Give me that rose, Lily! ” I said; and she handed 
it at once, innocently. 

“ Kiss it first,” I said. 

She did so, and handed it back again with the most 
charming of smiles. 

I took it, kissing it in my turn. The perfume of 
this very rose has been coming to me of late. It seems 
strange. Is it possible, after all, that there is a kind 
of spiritual bond between blessed souls and the lost 
on<?s here, immaterial as the breath of a flower? O 
happy thought, let me hold it fast . . . alas it has 

vanished . . . transient as the wafted odor itself! 

That sublime moment when the glory of Paradise 
will break through the night cannot be far now; 
it is coming, coming! I shall behold her again, and 
though it be a pang of ten thousand sorrows I 
care not. I shall see her in heavenly beauty; . . 

but oh, the darkness that will follow! Yet come what 
may, her picture will not quit me. . . . I see it 

— shall always see it — radiant in bliss, though I be 
in the depth of hell. Can it be utter damnation if 
God leaves me that much of communion with one of 


FROM A LOST SOUL 233 

His blessed saints? I know, I feel, that she is think- 
ing of me as I think of her — loving me, though it 
be with the love of a sister. What shall I say — dare 
I say it? Could God be a Father if the sister is in 
heaven, and the brother for ever lost in hell? . . . 

I went to church the other day, not for the first 
time; but I have refrained from speaking about it 
hitherto for very shame’s sake. Indeed, I would 
rather have kept away altogether, but one is forced to 
do a great deal here one would prefer to leave alone. 

Be it known, then, that hell is not without a church 
establishment. We have everything, you see, yet noth- 
^ ing — nothing! You will understand, I cannot be 
‘'•^speaking of the Church, in the true meaning of the 
word, that is why I add establishment — disestablish- 
ment would be as good a term — and of course there 
is no such thing as a worshipping congregation here, 
or anything like divine service. I can only say we go 
to church. Good heavens, what a farce 1 
1 There are about as many churches here as there 
are reverend gentlemen, and that is saying a good 
! deal I All false and faithless ecclesiastics — all who, 

' for the sake of a good living or other worldly advan- 
lltage, have sinned against the gospel — all hirelings 
1 wronging the Lord’s sheep — are gathered here. 
Now they are eaten up with a burning zeal for the 
gospel which once they slighted, but that gospel is 
far from them; they are devoured now with love for 
the sheep, but there are no sheep to be tended. They 
build churches upon churches, preaching morning, 
noon and night; but never a word of God’s passes 
their lips. If the word of grace were yet within their 
reach, they and their listeners might be saved. But 


234 A MESSAGE 

their stewardship is over and the mysteries are taken 
from them. Yet they are driven — driven to preach, 
for ever seeking the one pearl they so grievously neg- 
lected. 

And so are the people — seeking I mean — but not 
finding. Hell is full of professing Christians. This 
may sound strange, but it is true nevertheless, since 
all the thousands are here to whom Christianity in 
life was but an outward thing — a habit, or even a 
mask, hiding an unconverted heart; all those who, hav- 
ing heard the message of salvation, listened to it com- 
placently, but never strove to make sure of it for 
themselves — merely playing with God’s truth, as it 
were, falling away in the time of temptation. They 
are hungering and thirsting now for the word once 
despised, but it has passed away for ever. They know 
it, for some of them have been at their hopeless en- 
deavor for years and centuries now; but they cannot 
resist flocking to the would-be churches, listening anx- 
iously to ministers that cannot minister. 

The churches consequently are full to overflowing, 
but you always find room; for a spirit, a shade, can 
squeeze in anywhere. There is no need, therefore, 
to take a pew, or pay for it either, as you do upon 
earth, where the rich command the best places, be it 
at the theater or at the church. That is one advan- 
tage we have over you. 

At an evening party the other day I met a certain 

Rev. Mr. T . I had nearly given his name, but 

that is against my principles. Who should he be 
but an old acquaintance of former years! I remem- 
ber him well, a fashionable parson of the kind the 
world approves of — gentlemanly and easy-going in 
worJd and deed. Shaking hands on leaving, he said 


FROM A LOST SOUL 235 

lightly: “I shall be glad to preach to you if you’ll 
come. I have built a church in Sensuality Square — 
queer name, ain’t it ? — anybody can show you the way 
— just at the top of Infirmity Street. I’ve concocted 
a grand sermon for next Sunday; you’d better come.” 
What could I do but go. I might as well listen to my 
old acquaintance as to any other pretender of the cloth. 

I found the church in the Square indicated. I was 
late, coming in upon the singing; but, ye angels, what 
singing! Instead of ^saintly hymns, the most horrible 
songs I ever heard — the natural utterance of the peo- 
ple’s own thoughts. The congregation was exceedingly 
fashionable, of irreproachable attitude. But old men, 
apparently crowned with honor — young women, wear- 
ing innocence as a garment — joined in that shameless 
performance. Parents encouraged their children, hus- 
bands, their wives, unabashed. Alas 1 and no sooner 
had I entered than I was no better than the rest; having 
come to sing praises, my evil thoughts bubbled over, and 
I desecrated good intention with ribald song. 

It ceased. The parson appeared in his pulpit with 
an assumption of sanctity quite edifying — but for a 
moment only, then his beautiful expression gave way 
to a deplorable grin. It was with difficulty that he 
reigned in his feelings, and looked serious and sancti- 
monious again as he began: 

“ My worshipping friends . . .” a proper begin- 

ning, no doubt, and I am sure he meant his very best — 
proceeding vigorously for quite half an hour, I should 
say, opening and shutting his mouth with the most 
frightful grimaces, though never a word came forth. 
He seemed to be aware of it and made desperate ef- 
forts at eloquence; presently he began again: 

“ My worshipping friends . . . and now he ap- 


A MESSAGE 


236 

peared to be in high water, dashing and splashing 
and floundering along, quite drenching the congrega- 
tion with his fluency; but never a thought he gave 
them, and the most shallow of his listeners resented 
it presently. He was just winding up his rhetoric 
when there was an outburst of laughter; he stopped 
short, open-mouthed, and, like a poodle that had had 
a ducking, shamefacedly slunk down his pulpit stair. 

I could tell more, but let me cast a veil over it. I 
left the place heavy-hearted. 

Is there anything worse than to pretend to be living, 
being dead — dead ! 


CHAPTER XIX. 


The sweeter memories are in themselves, the greater 
their bitterness in hell, is it not strange? nay, it is 
dreadful. I am a prey to despair, not that despair 
which finds an outlet in raving madness — there is life 
in that^ — but a kind of apathy which is the sister of 
death. Despair is one’s daily bread here; it is in us, 
it is about us. 

Absorbed at times — closing my eyes I had almost 
said, but it is no use doing that here — withdrawing 
within myself, however, I have the strangest fancies 
and imaginings. 

The other day I believed myself carried away into 
a wood. It was one of those wondrous May-days 
when spring bursts to life not only in nature, but in 
the heart as well. But the delights of spring are never 
so pure, the human soul is never so uplifted, as in some 
genial forest-glade. 

The joyful carols of the feathered songsters found 
an echo in my heart; I felt ready to join in their 
thanksgiving. The rich fragrance of the wood was 
about me, sinking into my soul, when suddenly I heard 
Lily’s voice somewhere between the trees. 

I started — shaken out of my dreamful delight. O 
cruelty — where am I? There are no birds here, no 
woodland enchantment, no love that might call! 

We had taken a house one summer amid the scenery 
of the lake country. There were splendid woods about 
us. My mother had provided herself with compan- 

237 


23S A MESSAGE 

ionship, so that I could follow my own bent whenever 
I chose. 

Often in the early morning I would take Lily for 
a row, landing now here, now there, to spend the 
day, gypsy-fashion, amid the woody glens. I delighted 
at such times in having escaped from the world and 
its pleasures; what sort of renunciation that was you 
will readily understand. I was nowise prepared to 
give up the world in order to gain heaven. I merely 
felt nauseated with the excess, young as I was, and 
glad to turn my back upon it for a time ; but not long- 
ing for anything better or higher. 

Lily too delighted in burying herself in nature, as 
she called it. And aimlessly we would wander about 
the livelong day, stopping where the fancy took us, 
and proceeding again to look for other spots of en- 
chantment. Now and then we would come upon a hut 
where frugal fare was obtainable; or we took with us 
what might satisfy simple need. Let us live like chil- 
dren of the wood, we said, and did so. 

Lily might be about twelve years at the time. My 
mother rather objected to our uncivilized roamings; 
but meeting my opposition, she contented herself with 
the final injunction, “ See that Lily does not get too 
wild.” Wild, sweet dove! — how should she? 

Lily’s company was as refreshing to me as the dewy 
fragrance of the landscape. In those genial days the 
graciousness of her being unfolded, and I felt a child 
with her. How she could laugh and chatter, delight 
in a nothing, and call up the echoes! How easy and 
free and charming was her every movement 1 She 
must look into everything, peeping now here, now there, 
finding surprises everywhere. Hers was a marvelous 
gift of understanding the little mysteries of nature. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 239 

The least and most hidden escaped not her notice. 
Where others passed heedless, she perceived wonders. 
It seemed as if nature delighted in opening her secret 
beauty to the pure-eyed child. The nimble deer 
came forth from, the cover and looked at her with 
trustful gaze — turning and looking again, as though 
inviting her to follow. The sly fox would quit his 
lair, seeking mice and beetles for his supper, un- 
troubled by her presence, but giving her a furtive 
squint now and then, as if to keep her in sight. The 
birds chirped at her merrily, or, half hiding in the 
leafy bowers, warbled down upon her their most glee- 
ful song — others running along the lichened boles, 
as if to show off their special art. The little squirrels, 
hopping from bough to bough, would follow her about 
the wood. Rare plants and flowers seemed to grow 
beneath her footstep; they were there at least when- 
ever she looked for them. Everything enchanting her 
added to her charms; as the fairy of the place she ap- 
peared in her sylphlike loveliness, with those eyes that 
welled over with a light touched by sadness, and that 
smile that spoke of sunbeams sparkling through rain. 

We would camp beneath some tree at times, gather- 
ing sticks and fir-cones for a fire, by way of preparing 
for a meal. This done, I would leave Lily to her own 
devices, and how proud she was of her assumed dig- 
nity! We quite feasted on such occasions; never did 
* I enjoy the grandest dinner more. I would call her 
my little wife, as I watched her busy contrivances, and 
1 truly all those nameless graces were hers with which 
tenderest woman will flit round the object of her care. 

Having enjoyed our gypsy meal, she would read to 
: me, and sometimes I yielded to courting sleep; then 
i she would watch by me, keeping the buzzing flies from 
1 


^40 A MESSAGE 

disturbing my slumbers; and on waking, the first thing 
I grew conscious of were those radiant stars — her 
faithful eyes. 

At other times I would read by myself, or pretend 
to read, listening to that mysterious rustle in the tree- 
tops which is as of distant water, and to the many 
sounds that break upon the stillness of the wood, mak- 
ing it more solemn by contrast. Lily then would roam 
about by herself, never unoccupied. Innumerable were 
the wreaths she made and the nosegays she gathered; 
or she would return rich with spoils, bringing leaves 
full of berries, red and ripe. But she never was out 
of the reach of my voice. Life seemed a perfect idyl. 

One day — we were just saying that we ought to 
know the woods by heart now — having gone rather 
farther than usual, we came upon a little house I had 
cause to remember, though I had chosen to forget 
it, covered with clematis and roses, — the charming 
lodge where I had met Annie. I started, horror- 
struck, trembling, and no doubt white as death, fright- 
ening poor little Lily dreadfully. She anxiously in- 
quired what ailed m;e; but not till some minutes had 
elapsed had I recovered sufficiently to pretend to an- 
swer her questions, dragging her away with me hastily. 
What explanation I gave her I know not; I only re- 
member that all that day I could not look her in the 
eyes again. Flow she pained me with her tender in- 
quiries, her loving sympathy — little guessing, poor 
child, what a frightful memory she kept hovering about 
in her innocence. 

We continued our roamings, extending them farther 
still — for I could not rest — but delight there was 
none. Poor little Lily, she had set out full of hopes 
of pleasure, and found nothing but sadness and dis- 


FROM A LOST SOUL 241 

spiritedness; she was ready to sink with fatigue, but 
I saw it not. 

Toward evening a storm broke, and as we neared 
the lake we found it one seething mass of boiling 
waters. I dared not risk the child in the boat, so noth- 
ing remained but to follow the path by the shore, the 
distance to the house, fortunately, not being beyond 
possibilities. But Lily was tired out. The storm 
spirit flapped his angry wings about us. I wrapped 
her in a cloak, saying I would carry her home. She 
assured me she was able to walk; but no, I would carry 
her. 

And how light was the burden! how doubly dear! 
I felt as if I could walk on thus to the ends of the 
world. Holding her close I went on steadily, having 
a couple of miles before me. The stormy clouds were 
driving overhead, the rain kept beating about me; but 
I cared not, meeting force with force. How touching 
was Lily’s anxiety lest she should prove troublesome; 
and, finding that I was fully bent on carrying her home, 
how sweetly she would set herself to repay me, whis- 
pering words of loving gratitude, as if thereby to lessen 
the burden 1 But even at that time I could not shut 
out profaning fancy; my thoughts before long reverted 
to the carrying off of the Sabines in the Loggia dei 
Lanzi at Florence. I was ashamed of the comparison, 
and tried to turn from it by an effort of will; so, partly 
to punish myself for the unworthy image, partly also 
to amuse Lily, I called up another picture, which, I 
hoped, was more in harmony with the occasion — the 
story of Christophorus carrying the Holy Child. I 
told Lily the legend of the powerful heathen who, con- 
scious of his strength, would serve none but the great- 
est, and who, from kings and emperors, was directed 
15 


A MESSAGE 


242 

at last to Christ crucified. Seeking for Him vainly 
the world over, he dwelt at last by the side of a tem- 
pestuous torrent, satisfied to carry pilgrims across. 
Years had passed, when one night he heard the calling 
of a child, and lifted it upon his mighty shoulder, the 
burden growing and growing till he nearly broke down 
in the river. Yet reaching the other shore, the won- 
derful child said to the hoar}^ giant: “Thou shalt be 
called Christophorus, for thou hast borne thy Lord! ” 
And the heathen knew Him and suffered himself to be 
baptized. 

My story had rocked Lily to sleep. Her arm was 
about my neck, her warm cheek resting against mine. 
In silence I walked along. 

But the legend had left an impression on my own 
heart. The figure of the Savior had risen before me; 
I seemed conscious of His holy presence. I had not 
thought of him for many a day. But buried out of 
sight though the faith of childhood was, it had not 
yet died; it was welling up even now from the dark 
depth of my heart, followed by recollections, some bit- 
ter, some sweet — the bitter ones abounding, hiding 
their head in shame. What a weight of sin had I not 
heaped upon me in the few years of life I called mine. 

The sleeping child grew heavier and heavier; but 
I seemed bearing a burden of sin. 

With uncertain footstep I staggered onward through 
the darksome night. The storm increased, lashing the 
waves and hurling them in masses of curdled foam 
against the rocky shore. More than once I felt water 
about my feet, as though the maddened lake had risen 
to drag me down. But on I went, heaving and pant- 
ing, the cold dews breaking from every pore. It was 
not so much the physical powers, as the strength of 



MY STORY HAD ROCKED LILY TO SLEEP 







. --H 




\ < 




■M*'' fY 

"V , • t? 


• 


H'W 



*:?• cjk. '■' ‘‘. 

.. ^ ' ' iKfii 

Ik A ff •■ « » ' • • ' 




. f*J 


?--»*• 

'‘O 

i^v' 








■■ • »' 


17 :' 'w 

■s ^ . - ih. . 


■* - 


* ' ♦ • *. 


y : JBS^j v’- \Y - ' ■* 












^^4 


*^1 ■ '•^ \ ■ i *'*' " 






5 V 

r;^ '.• .’ ■' *^ 



'V ' ^ ■* ’•'- ■' ■" ■' *’5i^T 



FROM A LOST SOUL 245 

soul giving way. I experienced a weight of wretched- 
ness never known before. Tortured by regret and 
fear — by an utter contempt, moreover, of self — I 
had reached for once a frame of mind that might 
enable me to turn upon the miserable I, and become 
a new creature perchance. Who knows but that I was 
near the blessed victory, when lo ! there was the light 
from my mother’s window appearing through the dark- 
ness and dispelling my thoughts. It was all gone — 
grief and regret and emotion. Would that the house 
had been a little farther, and the time gained might 
have defrauded hell of its prey! 

Cold and shivering I entered the well-lit room, leav- 
ing outside the chastened feelings that had come to me 
in the troubled night. And finding myself once more 
in the cozy chamber, I breathed with a great sense of 
relief. 

And now Lily was waking from her sleep. “ What 
a beautiful dream 1 ” she whispered, with half opening 
eyes, as I dropped a kiss on her forehead by way of 
bidding her good-night. They were carrying her off 
to bed. 

The following morning she told me her dream : 

“ I thought I was standing by the side of a river. 
And presently I saw St. Christophorus coming towards 
me with the Christ-Child upon his shoulder. He 
stopped, and the Child sat down by me; we played 
with grasses and flowers, singing songs, and I felt very 
happy. But the big Christophorus looked down upon 
us, leaning on his staff. 

“ We twined the flowers into wreaths, but the Child 
could do more than I. It made a cross, and then a 
crown of thorns, putting that upon His temples. 
There were tiny red flowers between the stalks, hang- 


A MESSAGE 


246 

ing loosely over the forehead, and reminding one of 
drops of blood. And presently the Christ-Child said: 

‘ We will think of something else; look me in the face 
— what is it you see?’ I looked and seemed to be- ,j 
hold, firstly, the Sower that went forth to sow; then 
the good Samaritan, and it was as though I heard Him \ 
speak. And next I saw the Good Shepherd carrying 
the lamb in His bosom. I dare say I might have seen 
more had not a question come to me. ‘ Is it true,’ I 
asked, ‘ that men could be so wicked as to hang Thee 
upon the Cross, piercing Thy side with a spear? ’ 

“ ‘ Yes,’ said the Christ, ‘ see here are My hands, . 

and see My side ! ’ The marks were red as blood, j 

and I cried bitterly. ‘ Weep not, little Lily,’ said He; i 

‘ I do not feel it now; the love of my Father in heaven, j 
and the love of my brothers and sisters upon earth, j 

have made up for it long ago.’ 1 

“ We had been silent awhile, when the Christ-Child ’■ 
resumed: ‘Would you not like to be carried a little j 

by this kind Christophorus ? he does it so gently. j 

Where would you like him to take you ? ’ 1 

“ ‘ Well,’ I said, scarcely considering, ‘ I always had < 

a longing for the Holy Land. But that is a long way ^ 

off, and I should have to leave Thee here.’ 

“ ‘ No, Lily, it is not nearly so far as you think,’ ] 

replied the Christ, ‘ and you and I will never part. 

You will find me there if you like to go.’ i 

“ I rose, and Christophorus took me upon his shoul- 
der, carrying me far, far away. By day he followed a ^ 

bright red cloud, by night a shining star. It was the i 

star of Bethlehem. Through many lands we went, | 
hearing tongues I understood not, passing mountains | 
and rivers and lakes, and going over the great sea at | 
last. There was no land to be seen now, and the waves 1 


FROM A LOST SOUL 247 

rose high as mountains. I grew afraid lest we should 
never get through. But good Christophorus said : 
‘Fear not, little child; I have borne my dear Lord 
Christ ; I shall not fail to carry thee.’ 

“ And after many days we reached the other shore 
— it was the Holy Land. On he walked, with his 
staff in his hand and me upon his shoulder, past 
Jemsalem, the white walls of which lay sparkling in 
the sunshine — the royal city looking as beautiful as 
ever she could have been in the days of yore. Farther 
still — not far — and he stopped in a little town nes- 
tling amid her hills. Here the star stood still. It was 
Bethlehem. 

“ Christophorus put me down before a humble inn. 

“ The door opened, and, behold, the Holy Child 
was there, taking me by the hand and leading me in. 
‘ There is only a manger here, little Lily, to make thee 
welcome. But one day, when thou art weary of life, 
I will take thee to a mansion above.’ 

“And the Christ-Child drew me close — oh so lov- 
ingly — close, quite close, and kissed me. 

“ I awoke; we had just reached home. Ah, Philip, 
I would have liked to go on dreaming for ever! ” 

“ Well, little sister,” I said gaily, “ I think you might 
be satisfied. Flaven’t you been to Bethlehem and back, 
and seen no end of wonders in one short hour? What 
could you expect more? ” 

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully, “you are right. I 
ought to be satisfied till Christ bids me welcome in 
His mansion above.” 


LETTER XX. 


I HAD been seeking for Annie too long already, not 
to have all but given up the hope of ever meeting her 
again. She seemed utterly vanished. But hell is large, 
and its inhabitants are not to be numbered. 

Inquiry for her quite unsettled my mode of life. I 
was but a vagabond, traveling hither and thither, driven 
onward by a gnawing need. There was a fire within 
me, and I thirsted; living man — no, not the parched 
wanderer in the desert ever knew such agony — thirsted 
for Annie, though I knew she was but as a broken 
cistern that can hold no water, and unable, therefore, 
to soothe my pain. She had lost that privilege of 
womanhood in life even — how much more so in hell. 
No; Annie could not quench my thirst. In vain she 
keeps wringing her garments, her once glorious hair; 
it is wet and dripping, though never a drop of water 
she wrings out of it. But she carries that about with 
her which would solve a terrible mystery. That is why 
I am driven to seek her — thinking and dreaming of 
her as I once did in life, when the red glow coursed 
through my veins, and I saw in her but a flower in the 
vast realm of nature, unfolding her beauty for my 
selfish delight. But how different now ! It was not 
love that drew me — but the dread longing to read in 
her face concerning that awful likeness, which had 
flashed through my conscience on meeting her before. 
It was more than a presentiment then — it seemed an 
assurance; still I wanted proof to determine between 
doubt and certainty. She — she alone could be the 
248 


FROM A LOST SOUL 249 

witness that sealed my guilt. Her features had 
spoken; but by her mouth alone could I finally be con- 
victed. Yet, even though I found her, could I hope 
to hear her voice ? My heart misgave me — but en- 
deavor to find her I must. 

At last, after many days, the desire seemed realized. 
I came upon her sitting by the river, motionless, and 
gazing into the turbid flow, as though about to seek 
death in its embrace. Hell, after all, at times offers 
what is akin to satisfaction : for a moment I forgot self 
and everything beside me, anxious only to approach 
her. As a gliding shadow I moved forward, scarcely 
to be distinguished from the crawling mists that haunt 
those banks of darkness. 

I was able to watch her leisurely, though in fevered 
anguish and with trembling soul, examining her coun- 
tenance and questioning her every feature. It was all 
pain and suffering to me; but I forced myself to the 
task, and the result was utterly startling, an effort of 
the will only keeping me from jumping to my feet. 
How could I have believed Martin to be her very 
image! There was a likeness certainly, but not more 
than might be merely casual. 

It was the first time that I experienced anything 
like relief in hell — strange that it came to me by the 
side of that ominous river! A feeling of comfort all 
but superseded the pain of inquiry. 

My eyes devouring her greedily, yielded conviction. 
No — hers was no likeness to Martin that need trouble 
me. But there was a likeness — to whom? 

My satisfaction was shortlived, alas ! A new horror 
laid hold of me, clutching my every fibre. What could 
it be? Doubt pursued by certainty darting through 
me — I saw it — Yes! Yes! Annie was not like 


A MESSAGE 


250 

Martin; she was like that girl loved by Martin, whom 
I had lifted from poverty, but who had preferred pov- 
erty with Martin to a palace with me ! 

It must be so — the more I gazed the more certain 
I seemed. This then was Martin’s secret that should 
have made all straight between us — that girl my 
daughter, and he, Martin, my son ! 

I shook with horror; again the words kept ringing 
in my brain that the sins of the fathers shall be visited 
upon the children. That girl my child! So near had 
I been to commit a crime at which vice itself shrinks 
back appalled. My own daughter! Oh heavens of 
mercy, where indeed shall the consequences of sin find 
their limit? 

Unutterable anguish laid hold of me. There she 
sat, pale, gloomy — a very image of pitiless fate. A 
few words of hers would have sufficed to dispel the 
misery of suspecting doubt. 

But not a word she had for me; her soul and mine 
were utterly apart. The time was when she followed 
me, though I took her to the road of hell. Now she 
turned from me, and had I been able to show her the 
way to Paradise, I believe she would have spurned me 
with loathing. 

My life seems one mass of darkness, but I see in- 
numerable lights — some heavenly, some earthly — 
illumining the gloom. It is more especially the count- 
less proofs of God’s fatherly goodness I call to mind; 
like stars I see them shining through the night of my 
sinful folly. 

I see now often God was near me, how often His 
hand was upon me to stop me in the downward course ; 
to warn me, move me, draw me to Him in unutterable 


FROM A LOST SOUL 251 

mercy. How tender, how faithful, how long-suffering 
was He in His dealings with me, following me in pity 
all the days of my life — as. Indeed, He follows all 
men. Oh, think of It my brothers, my sisters, ye, whose 
eyes are not yet closed In death. He Is following you, 
loving you dally, continually ! But I spurned the touch 
of that hand, not caring for His love, and I am lost 
now, having my portion with the ungodly In the place 
of walling and gnashing of teeth. 

I could not but be moved sometimes. The hand 
reaching down from heaven was too plainly to be felt; 
the blessings It spread about my path were too great for 
even me to disregard them. There were times when 
I felt I ought to kiss that hand of mercy, pouring out 
tears of repentant gratitude. My heart would be 
softened and stirred to the depth. If sorrow for sin 
was weak, yet resolutions to mend my ways seemed 
strong, and I believed I should never again forget how 
good the Lord had been. 

But forget I did, losing sight of everything — love, 
gratitude, benefit, and resolve — ay, of God Himself! 
Nor was It mere forgetting — no, I cared not to re- 
member; turning away so fully, that when trouble once 
more overtook me, I never even thought of Him who 
had helped me and pitied me before. 

Yes, let me confess It loudly, it is not the fault of 
God that I did not come forth from earth’s besetting 
dangers a redeemed and blessed soul 1 

The parable of the Good Shepherd giving His life 
for the sheep, how simple It Is, and how It speaks to 
the heart ? And that love Is not only for the flock as a 
whole, but for each Individual sheep — ever leaving 
the ninety and nine to go after that which Is gone 


A MESSAGE 


252 

astray. And how tenderly will He seek for it, and, 
if so be that He find it, carry it home, rejoicing! 

Yes, I feel it now, if I did not feel it then, that 
all through my sinful life there was One seeking me 
in sorrow and in hope, ay — and finding me again and 
again! But I would not stay in the fold, preferring 
my own dark ways to His watchful guidance. I would 
not, and lo, I am lost! 

I never was visited by serious illness after that first 
trouble at the outset of manhood till the days of my final 
agony; but I once suffered from inflammation of the 
eyes, which necessitated my abiding for several weeks 
in a darkened room. That was a time of misery — 
not merely a trial to patience, but simply awful. I 
gained a pretty clear idea of the signal punishment 
inflicted by the solitary-confinement system in prisons. 
To a heart burdened with evil recollections there can 
be no greater misery than solitude. Days and nights 
were crawling past alike in gloom; and it seemed to 
me not only that darkness itself increased, but that 
I was engulfed by it more and more. And yet that 
darkness was but a feeble foretaste of the night en- 
closing me here; I thought it fearful then; it would be 
mercy now. 

I had plenty of so-called friends, but somehow not 
many cared to visit me ; it was not pleasant, I suppose, 
to share my confinement and listen to my dismal grum- 
blings. 

So I was left alone for the most part. Alone? — 
nay, I had company. My better self had a chance 
now of being heard I had forgotten it, neglected 
it, banished it for years. But it had found me out, 
seizing upon my loneliness to confront me, darkness 
not being an obstacle. I disliked it exceedingly, yet 


FROM A LOST SOUL 253 

what could I do but listen. It had come to upbraid 
me, contending with me, and left me no peace. 

There are two selves in every man, never at unity 
with one another, although theirs is a brotherhood 
closer than that of Castor and Pollux of old; striving 
continuously, not because love is wanting, but because 
contention is their very nature. That duality in man 
is the outcome of sin. If he could be saved from it, 
sin with all its consequences would cease to enthral him. 
And there is a release, as I found out in those darkened 
days. We wrestled without a hope of conciliation. 
There is not a more stiff-necked or inflexible being 
than what is called the better self. Not one iota would 
it yield; but I was to give up everything, should strip 
myself entirely to the death even of self. But I would 
not and perhaps I could not. 

Yes, I could, if I would! For presently I perceived 
that we were not two but three; two warring, and a 
third one trying to mediate in earnest love. I could 
oppose the better self but Him I dared not contradict. 
I felt it too plainly that He was right, and that through 
Him only I could be at peace with myself and begin a 
new life. I knew who He was, the one Mediator, not 
only between me and that other self, but between me 
and the righteous God — the only-begotten Son, once 
born in the flesh. 

In those days I was His prisoner. There was no 
escaping in the dark corner in which He faced me — 
the Good Shepherd had found the wandering sheep, 
Flis arms were about me, and He was ready to take 
me home. But the willingness was only on His side; 
I cared not, suffering Him with a negative endurance 
merely, and not wanting to be kept fast. There was 


A MESSAGE 


254 

something within me waiting but for opportunity to 
break away from the Shepherd’s hold. 

Nor was opportunity wanting; it is ever at hand 
when looked for by perversity. The evil one had no- 
wise yielded his part in me, and required but little effort 
to assert it. 

He invented an amusement that needed no light. 
One of my friends was his messenger, and I received 
him open-armed as a very liberator. Delightful pas- 
time — that game of hazard — that could be played in 
the dark! 

We played, my friend and I — no, the enemy and 
myself ; for my companion was no other than the 
prince of darkness; the stakes — I knew it not then, 
but I know it now — being nothing less than my soul’s 
salvation. With such an expert I could of course not 
compete ; he won — I lost. 

I remember a glorious evening on the Mediter- 
ranean. The day had been sultry, but towards sun- 
set a gentle wind had risen; a cool air from the north- 
west, fresh and balmy, fanned the deck. The waves 
rose and sank in even cadence, their silvery crests 
sparkling far and wide. A playful troop of dolphins 
gamboled round the vessel. 

The sun had just dipped his radiant front in the 
cooling waters; dashes of gold, amid a deeper glow 
of purple and red, burned in the western horizon, 
beyond the Ionian sea, enhancing an aspect of un- 
utterable loveliness. To our left was the splendid is- 
land of Cythera, and, rising beyond it, with clear outlines 
and deepening shadows, the majestic hills of Maina, 
where Sparta was of old. To our right the beauteous 
Candia, with the heaven-kissing Ida, the snowy summit 


FROM A LOST SOUL 255 

of which was even now blushing in a rapture of parting 
light. 

Lily sat silent and almost motionless, leaning against 
the bulwark, her hands pressed to her bosom, gazing 
absently toward the coast of Morea. The wind played 
caressingly with a curl of her silky hair. I knew not 
what to admire most, the glorious panorama, or the 
girlish figure that formed so lovely a center. My eyes 
rested on her, drinking in her beauty — ha ! what was 
that? Uneasily she breathed, her chest heaving, her 
face turned to me with an expression of anguished 
distress. I saw that flush and pallor strove for the 
mastery in her face, and that her spirit battled against 
some unknown foe. 

“What is it, Lily?” I cried, repressing emotion. 

“ I know not,” she said, with a troubled sigh. “ I 
felt a horrible weight on my soul. But be not anxious, 
my friend, it is gone already.” 

And indeed she looked herself again. I took her 
hand, and we sat side by side, not talking. The night 
descended slowly — a night of paradise. The land 
disappeared in folds of gray, the summit of Ida only 
preserving a faint flush, and the darkening dome above 
shone forth in myriads of sparkling lights. 

“What are you thinking of, Lily?” I asked, pres- 
ently closing my hand on hers. 

“Shall I tell you, Philip?” she responded softly, 
looking me full in the face. “ I just remembered a 
little story; would you like to hear it? ” And she be- 
gan : 

“ There was a poor man whose pious parents left 
him no heritage save an honest name and a good, God- 
loving heart; now although in this he had riches with- 
out measure, yet the world accounted him poor. 


256 


A MESSAGE 


“ It went well with him at first but by degrees he 
tasted trouble. He lost the small fortune he had suc- 
ceeded in saving by dint of work. And the people 
pointed to him saying : ‘ Poor wretch ! ’ 

“ ‘ No, not poor,’ he said; ‘ God Is my portion! ’ 

“ But misfortune pursued him. Most of his so-called 
friends turned their back on him, and those even whom 
he had trusted most, proved faithless. He was de- 
ceived, calumniated, misjudged. 

“And people shook their heads saying: ‘How 
wretched and miserable you are, to be sure 1 ’ 

“ ‘ No,’ he said, though his voice trembled, ‘ not 
wretched, for God Is my portion 1 ’ 

“ But the greatest trouble of all now laid him low; 
he lost his loving wife, and soon after his only child. 
The suffering man stood alone In a heartless world. 

“ Again the people said, shrugging their shoulders : 
‘ Surely now you will own yourself miserable and 
wretched, a very butt of trouble ! ’ 

“ ‘ No,’ he cried, repressing the welling tears, ‘ God 
is yet my portion 1 ’ 

“ And the people turned from him, saying he was 
singular and strange, and nicknaming him John Com- 
fort In virtue of his peculiarity. 

“ But he, truly, was not wretched, nor Indeed for- 
saken. The last words he was heard to speak on earth 
were : ‘ God In heaven is my portion 1 ’ 

“ And he entered into the joy of his Lord.” 

Did Lily love me? Again and again I ask myself 
this question. You will think It ought to be of little 
consequence to me now. But not so. Since all is van- 
ity and nothingness here, the past only remains to be 
looked to; and even the sure knowledge that her love 


FROM A LOST SOUL 257 

was mine would be unspeakable comfort. But hell is 
void of comfort. Shall I ever find an answer to that 
question ? 

Again and again I have gone over the whole of 
my intercourse with her, trying to understand her part 
of the relation between us. Sometimes I have seemed 
to arrive at a “ yes,” and then a bitter “ no ” wipes out 
the happy conviction. She knew me from childhood, 
seeing a brother in me, no doubt — an elder brother 
even, for the discrepancy of years must have been 
against me. And she, whose heart from her tenderest 
youth had been directed to heaven, how should she, 
how could she, have fastened her affections on such 
a clod of earth as I was? And she died so young, in 
the happiest age of ideals. 

But still, if I call back to mind the tenderness with 
which she ever surrounded me, the entire devotion that 
yielded to me with such loving surrender, and made her 
look to me as to her guide and guardian; and consid- 
ering that I was the only one of my sex she was brought 
into close contact with, I say to myself — surely she 
loved me, she cannot but have loved me ! Not with a 
feeling like mine, but with her own sweet affection, that 
love divine, passionless and pure, which so often spoke 
to my soul in intercourse with her, but which never 
found root in my heart. 

And I cannot forget that in dying something 
seemed present with her, resembling the perfect love 
of holiest woman. It made efforts to flow into words, 
it hovered on her lips, shining in her eyes, but 
it found not expression. It had not reached the ripe- 
ness which speaks, and it died with her, as an unborn 
babe with the mother that would have given it life. Is 


258 A MESSAGE 

it possible that it was love to me which, even in her last 
moments, glorified her beauty? 

Did she love me — yes or no ? Alas, I keep asking, 
and who shall give me an answer? She never had 
any secret from me. If indeed she loved me, that was 
the one secret, hidden surely to herself even, and she 
took it with her to the other life. . . . 

As a dream I remember the days we spent at Beth- 
lehem — a dream, though I hardly closed my eyes. 

It was with difficulty that we obtained admittance 
to a small cottage bordering upon the great cloister 
gardens. There she lay, pale as a lily, beautiful to 
the last, even in death. And the paler she grew the 
deeper glowed the brightness of her wondrous eyes. 
It was as if the very star of Bethlehem she loved to 
think of had found a dwelling in her gaze. Nor was 
she white with that livid pallor which death casts on 
features in which his lingering touch has wrought 
havoc; it was rather a transparent whiteness glorifying 
morality and testifying against its victory far more 
loudly than health’s rosiest bloom. 

Night followed day, and day succeeded night, the 
time for us flowing unmeasured; I know not how it 
passed. The cloister bells kept ringing almost con- 
tinuously, excruciating to my grief; for it seemed to me 
as though, with heartless voice, they were tolling out 
the life of my beloved. No one heeded us, but the 
prior one day sent some consecrated palm branches, 
which appeared to delight Lily. I fastened them above 
her couch. 

As life ebbed away her unrest increased. She asked 
to be moved. She was too weak herself, and as a little 
child I lifted her in my arms, my mother smoothing 
the couch. Alas, it was the first time since she had 


259 


FROM A LOST SOUL 

quitted childhood that I dared take her into my arms. 
And unconsciously, she clasped my neck to steady my 
hold. Oh, the touch of love! but how late it came, 
late because dying! I could not keep back my tears, 
and they fell on her upturned face. 

“ My friend,” she said, amid heavenly smiles — my 
heart yet trembles at the memory — “ tears, my friend, 
and I so happy? I do not suffer in the least, and 
soon, soon, it will all be over. There is but one thing 
grieving me. I long for the Paradise of God, my 
soul’s home, where peace and joy await me. I shall 
soon be there — without you, Philip ! But not for 
long. We shall be united again where there is no 
more parting.” 

Her voice was nearly inaudible, and her breathing 
troubled. As a spirit-whisper those words touched my 
ear: 

“ My friend,” she resumed after a while, “ how sweet 
it was to call you thus! Yes, Philip, I may tell you 
now, I loved that name for the best part of my life. 

. Yet there was a depth of meaning in it which 
I seemed not to fathom entirely, however much I en- 
deavored to be true and loving to you. ... I 
often felt you deserved a greater and fuller affection 
than I was able to give you . . . and yet those 

were happy moments when I tried to understand the 
high meaning of that sweet name. . . . But there 

seemed something hidden in it, — something I could 
not reach, — which, if I had it, would make happiness 
perfect. I have not found it. ... I go to God 
now, and there, Philip, all will be given ... we 
shall be calling each other friend in His presence to all 
eternity ... the measure of happiness will be 
full!” 


16 


260 


A MESSAGE 


Her physical unease reached such a pitch that lying 
down became impossible. I took her into my arms, 
sitting down on the edge of her couch, her head lean- 
ing against my heart, and by degrees quietude returned. 

I sat holding her, hour merging into hour; God 
alone knew what I suffered. She moved not — her 
eyes were closed; the slow faint breathing only, and 
the scarcely perceptible throbbing of her heart, showed 
that life had not yet fled. I held her hand in mine — 
cold, alas, already — and anxiously I watched the sink- 
ing pulse. I lived in its beating only, but oh, what 
hopeless living ! The hand grew icy, the pulse becom- 
ing slower and slower; it could not last much longer. 

Suddenly she raised her eyes, suffused with a light 
of unearthly kindling, and whispered gently, “ My 
friend ! ” As a fleeting breath the words escaped her 
lips, but I understood them, with a holy kiss bending 
to her brow. 

Again she moved her lips, but no further sound fell 
on my ear. She had told me once that she loved the 
habit of the ancient Church that joined a blessing to 
the Cross, and involuntarily I made the holy sign to her 
dying eyes. 

She understood it, a smile glorifying her features 
as with a reflection of heaven’s peace. Vision faded, 
the lids closing slowly. A gentle sigh, and she was 
gone. Lily’s dead body rested against my heart. 

Submission I knew not. The frail maiden had up- 
held me; she gone, strength and self-possession van- 
ished. For days and weeks I was as one bereft of rea- 
son, a prey to devouring grief. But of that I speak 
not I 


LETTER XXL 


It is long since I wrote to you. Repeatedly I have 
taken up the pen, but only to drop it again in despair. 
It seemed impossible to describe what I have seen. But 
it weighs upon the heart, urging me to tell you, how- 
ever feebly. Having confided so much to you, I ought 
not to keep this crowning experience to myself. Listen, 
then, to what I have to impart to you in sorrow. 

The great moment was fast drawing near. Dark- 
ness seemed being engulfed by the abyss more and more 
rapidly — light with us reaching its fulness in a trans- 
parent dawn; but far, far away, beyond the gulf, a 
great daybreak was bursting the confines of night. I 
knew the fair land of the blessed was about to be re- 
vealed. It was a wondrous radiance, increasing quickly, 
and transfusing the distant shore with hues of unknown 
and indescribable loveliness. In dreams only, or when 
yielding to the magic of music, a faint foretaste of 
glory may come to the human soul. 

Hell seemed captivated, the whole of its existence 
culminating in an all-pervading sense of dread; mil- 
lions of hungry-eyed souls drawn toward a self-same 
goal. Some like pillars of salt stood motionless, gaz- 
ing into the brightening glow; others had sunk to their 
knees; others again, falling to the ground sought to 
hide their faces; while some in hopeless defiance refused 
to look. But I stood in fear and trembling, forgetful 
of all but the vision at hand. 

And suddenly it seemed as if a great veil were rent 
asunder, torrents of light overflowing their banks, and 
261 


262 


A MESSAGE 


the wide heavens steeped in flame. A sigh bursting 
from untold millions of lost ones ended in a wail of 
sorrow that went quivering through the spaces of hell. 
I heard and saw no more. As one struck by lightning 
I had fallen on my face. 

How long I lay thus confounded I know not; but 
when again I lifted my dazzled eyes, there was a clear, 
steady glow, a beneficent radiance that admitted of my 
looking into it, not blinding vision. Still I had to ac- 
custom my sight to it; it seemed a vast ocean of light 
that by degrees only assumed color and shape; dawning 
forth to the raptured gaze as a world of beauty and 
loveliness, such as eye has not seen and the mind is 
unable to grasp. But never for a moment did I doubt 
the reality. I knew it was the land of bliss, even Para- 
dise, unfolding to my view. At first it seemed as though 
islands and distant shores grew visible in that sea of 
light, gentle harmonies of color floating about them. 
But gradually the scattered parts united, forming a per- 
fect whole, a world of bliss immeasurably vast. Yet, 
infinite as it appeared, it formed but a single country — 
a garden abounding in blessing, in beauty, in delight. 
The loveliest spots on earth are as desert places in 
comparison. I have no other words to describe it. To 
do so fully and justly I had need to be an angel, and 
you know what I am — one who might have been an 
angel, but lost now and for ever undone. 

Trembling with awe and enchantment I gazed into 
Paradise, deeper and deeper, encompassing, no doubt, 
thousands of miles. For, strange as the aspect was, 
the power of vision given was stranger still; my spirit 
seemed roaming through vast realms of glory, all their 
beauties laid bare to my tranced sense. I felt the balmy 
breezes, I heard the rustle of trees, the gentle cadence 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


263 

of waters. It was given me to see every perfect fruit, 
every lovely flower, everp drop of dew reflecting the 
light. I saw, heard, felt, drank in the fill of beauty. 
There was music everywhere, speaking the language of 
nature yorified. Not a dewdrop sparkling, not a tree- 
top rustling, not a flower opening, but it swelled the 
heavenly psalm ; all sounds floating together in harmony, 
wondrous and pure. As yet I saw no living soul; but 
songs of joy, of exultant praise, resounded everywhere, 
nature and spirit uniting in one perfect hymn. What 
shall I say, but that infinite bliss, unspeakable happiness, 
and heavenly peace, flashed delight into my soul with 
a thousand daggers of longing! 

This then was Eden, I seemed all but in it, and yet 
how far — how far! Of all that glory not a ray of 
light for me, not a flower even, or a drop of dew! 
Ah, gracious heavens, not a drop of water — not a 
single tear! 

But where were they, the souls whom no man hath 
counted, the saved ones, redeemed from the world? 
Not one of them I had seen as yet. The garden seemed 
as untrodden of human foot as on the day when Adam 
and Eve had been driven forth by him with the flaming 
sword. “ Where are ye, my loved ones, if not in the 
heaven I see? ” My heart cried out for them, longing, 
thirsting — Aunt Betty somehow rising first to my 
mind. Why she, I cannot tell, since there is another 
far nearer and dearer to my soul. 

But while I thought of her, behold herself! Yes, 
there she was, I opening my sorrowful arms to clasp 
her; but, ah me, there is a great gulf fixed, and no pass- 
ing across it! Yet I saw her, dear Aunt Betty — saw 
her as plainly as though I need but stretch forth my 
hand to draw her to my embrace. It was she, and yet 


A MESSAGE 


264 

how changed ! glorified to youth and beauty everlasting, 
the same to recognizing vision, but perfected, and spot- 
less as the white raiment she wore. Some happy 
thought seemed moving in her as she walked the paths 
of content, crowned with a halo of peace. I saw she 
was happy ; I saw it in the light of her eyes, in the smile 
hovering about her mouth; she had conquered, and 
sorrow and grief had vanished with the world. 

I was deeply moved, to the pouring forth of my 
soul even in weeping; but what boots emotion if the 
eyes are a dried-up well! I thought of the love and 
self-forgetting kindness she had ever shown to me in 
the days of her life. Now only I knew how much she 
had been to me — now only I understood her. For — 
marvelous yet true — I not only saw her: I was per- 
mitted even to read her heart. All she had suffered — 
her every battling and victory — lay open to my view 
as a finished tale. Yes, I understood her as I had 
never done before. Long ago when she was young, 
my father had been a true brother to her in a time of 
bitter sorrow, offering her the shelter of his love when 
she found the world empty and cold. She had never 
forgotten that — her grateful heart vowing to him the 
remainder of her life in the service of sisterly devotion. 
She had kept that vow fully, fondly. That was the 
key to her life. And her beautiful sacrifice of love 
enriched not only my father, but all she could help and 
cherish, souls without number, of whom I was chief. 

My father — Lily I my heart was reverting to both 
simultaneously. And oh, rapture ! — I beheld them 
even now emerging from a shady grove. Aunt Betty 
seemed to be meeting them. 

The sight of Lily was more than I could bear, a 
film overspreading my senses. It seemed at first as 


FROM A LOST SOUL 265 

though both had appeared but to vanish ; but no — in 
perfect clearness and heavenly calm these beloved ones 
moved in my vision. Nothing of outward beauty, nor 
yet of the heart’s secret history, being hid from me. 
Truly I had never known them, never seen them aright 
before. 

O Lily! beautiful even on earth and of sweetest 
womanhood, but surpassingly beautiful in the fulness 
of Paradise. Mortal eye has not seen such loveliness 
glorified to transcendent charm. Nay, human im- 
agination is too poor to reach even to the hem of her 
garment. “ Holy and sanctified ! ” seemed to be writ- 
ten in her every feature, surrounding her with a halo 
of praise. It spoke from her crown of glory, from 
the palm of victory she carried, from her robe of right- 
eousness whiter than snow. And as she lifted her shin- 
ing eyes, it w^as as though their gaze enfolded me; I 
trembled and glowed, as a flickering flame touched by 
a kindling breath. And that angel smile of perfect 
bliss accompanying the look seemed meant for me — 
even me. But that was illusion. None of them can see 
us here — thank God! I saw her; she was near me 
in spirit vision, but in truth she was far, far away; 
and the blessed ones in Paradise are saved from the 
thought of hell and its every horror. Yet the sepa- 
rating gulf does not separate me from her inmost 
thought. Woe is me! shall I weep, or dare I rejoice? 
I can read in her pious heart as in an open book? Ah 
me, what do I read? I see it — see it as in clearest 
writing that she loved me with all her soul — truly, if 
unconsciously, with the deepest purest giving of virgin 
bride. Ay more, she loves me still ! she is thinking of 
me, longing for me with a longing as painless as pure. 
For it is in hell only that pain and grief are known. 


266 


A MESSAGE 

What more can I say? Hopelessness, my daily por- 
tion, is as a blazing fire feeding on my soul, sometimes 
sinking in ashes, but never dying. At that moment of 
sweetest, bitterest conviction, the flame seemed fostered 
by denial, the very essence of hell. Bliss and delight 
veering round to despair, my whole miserable existence 
flared up in an all-consuming agony. 

“ See what might have been yours, but you have lost 
it — lost ! ” was the ever-recurring cry of my tortured 
soul. Can you wonder that I hardly heeded my good 
pious father who walked beside her, sharing her felic- 
ity? — that I cannot remember a single word passing 
between them — nay, heard not for very anguish ? 
Had I been quiet to listen, no doubt I would have heard 
mention of my name, might have heard them speak of 
me in heavenly tenderness. But, having seen Lily, and 
read in her very heart the assurance that she loved me, 
I heard and saw no more. “ See what might have been 
yours, but you have lost it — lost!” I writhed in de- 
spair. Vain was my effort to lift eyes to her once more 
— I could not — could not 1 And with a cry of horror 
I fell back upon myself. 


LETTER XXII. 


Since you heard from me last — and there seems to 
have been a longer pause than usual — I have roamed 
about in aimless adventure. 

There are no accurate means of estimating either 
distance in hell, or the speed of our travels; I expect 
that both are astounding. Time and space here can 
only be spoken of in an abstract sort of way, as existing 
in thought merely. Consequently there are hardly two 
souls amongst us that would agree concerning the meas- 
ure of either. But that holds true of anything. 

Since everything, then, is imaginary, unanimity is 
merely accidental, and what is called harmony on earth 
is not to be found here. That a number of souls by 
social instinct, and under force of habit, should unite 
at a given place for a given object by no means is proof 
of concord. For concord presupposes liberty, whereas 
such souls are under downright compulsion, and, apart 
from the instinct which drives them in a common di- 
rection, nowise at unity among themselves. 

My roamings, then, are no free-will undertaking. 
Whenever I feel especially miserable and desponding, 
there is a sense of relief in dashing about blindly with 
no other object but that of moving. Blindly, I say — 
meaning heedless of obstacles; pushing through walls, 
mountains, houses, trees — through living creatures 
even if they are in my way. The latter, of course, is 
not altogether pleasant; fancy rushing through man or 
beast in your aimless hurry! But one gets used to 
everything here. ‘‘ Oh, distracted soul ! ” your neigh- 
267 


268 


A MESSAGE 


bor cries, and is satisfied you should pass. We are al- 
ways suiting ourselves to circumstances, you see. Are 
you surprised that I should yield to such madness of 
motion? Ti*ue, every one here has his or her congenial 
abode; so have I, leading, as you know, a sickening 
life. But I am helpless once the frenzy seizes me, un- 
hinging my very existence, and away I hie me, as 
driven by despair. 

Yes, that it is — despair and nothing else, engen- 
dering a need, amounting to passion almost, of trying 
to escape from oneself, or at least to stupefy oneself. 

Neither the one nor the other is possible; in the 
world one succeeds at times, never in hell. But that 
knowledge does not restrain me; again and again I per- 
ceive the utter uselessness of endeavor, pulling up sud- 
denly, perhaps, to find myself in the strangest of places. 

And more horribly strange, more dismal than any, 
is the place from which I lately returned. As a mad- 
dened fool I felt driven thither; as a maddened fool I 
hurried back, utterly confounded. 

I suppose every soul here is forced to perform that 
journey once at least; and in so far it might not un- 
aptly be called a pilgrimage, but to a frightful shrine. 
Whether it is on account of a certain inexplicable mania 
possessing us all sooner or later, or merely by dint of 
a dread attraction exercised by that awful place, I know 
not; but no one escapes the fate of going thither once, 
if not oftener. You know what a crowd is drawn by 
a public execution, and that people will assist at so 
dire a spectacle unless positively prohibited. It is 
strange ! But what you should say if anyone by morbid 
attraction had a longing to watch his own execution? 
Something very like this takes place here. 

You are aware by this time, and must be so, apart 


FROM A LOST SOUL 269 


I 


from my inadequate account, that between this evil 
place and Paradise a great gulf is fixed. Great, I say, 
and would add frightful, but that words invented for 
earth’s need are altogether unfit to describe that gulf. 
It is the home of Satan. Do you understand that? 
In the depth of that abyss the quenchless fire is burn- 
ing forever, tended by the devil and his host. How 
far away is it? I cannot tell; I think it is in the utmost 
limit of hell. How near one may approach it? Even 
at a distance of hundreds of miles one feels seized 
with giddiness and all the horrors of death; but one is 
drawn nevertheless. That one should ever escape it 
again seems marvellous. How wide the gulf is? 
When lit up by the radiance of Paradise, the eye at a 
leap seems to carry you across, but I doubt not it may 
be likened to a shoreless ocean. 

Light now is fast decreasing, swallowed up by the 
darkness rising afresh from the abyss. Do you expect 
me to describe to you that abode of terror? But I 
can no more depict it than I was able to give a true 
representation of Paradise. It is beyond human pos- 
sibilities, and I am but human, even in hell. Yet one 
thing I may tell you; believe me, that more than one 
rich man is to be found by the awful pit, looking across 
to where they see the blessed poor in Abraham’s bosom, 
stretching forth their arms too, and entreating for a 
drop of water to cool their tongue. But that first rich 
man of the gospel does not appear to be among them; 
there is a rumor that perchance he was saved. 

Alas ! I was among those begging rich, supplicating 
with all my soul, but no one — no one heard me. De- 
spair urged me to fling myself into the awful gulf, 
that perchance I might lose myself amid the howling 
fiends of the bottomless pit. What power prevented 


A MESSAGE 


270 

me, and eventually brought me back from the place, 
I know not. Is it possible that God in His mercy 
is yet keeping me? 

I have returned then, dreading I shall be carried 
thither a second time. I must tell you more, though 
it be a subject of horror both to you and to me; but 
then all these revelations are fraught with horror, and 
these letters had better remain unread by those whose 
self-complacent tranquillity of mind dislikes being har- 
assed. 

As I returned shivering in every fibre, and conscious 
of the thought only of Satan and his angels, I all but 
fell into the arms of one coming towards me on his 
way to the gulf. 

But was it a human being, this creature with mangled 
body and frightfully disfigured countenance? A man 
indeed, his very appearance bespeaking his name — 
Judas Iscariot. 

A piece of rope was round his neck, and in his hand 
he carried thirty pieces of silver. The rope all but 
suffocates him, and the money burns his fingers; he 
keeps throwing it away, but it always returns to his 
grasp. I have heard that it may be absent awhile swell- 
ing some usurper’s gains; but Judas before long finds 
it in his closed hand again, bearing the marks of blood. 
And then he is heard to groan, “ What is that to us ? 
see thou to that!” — a fruitless repentance, which is 
not repentance, eating away at his soul, and he spends 
himself in vain efforts to get behind some one and seize 
him by the- neck. 

What he intends by this is not quite clear; but peo- 
ple think he is anxious to find a charitable soul who 
will give him back the kiss he once gave to his Lord 
and Master, and thereby free him from those horrible 



HE KEEPS THROWING IT AWAY 














'Ifv 
• * \ 


'4 


S. 






4 

S* 


.1 



■•' *'. -si* ‘ N « ■ , • * ' ^ ' "H rt. .-^ 

4. ivT/^ 


?■ 


*♦ 


1 jy 




1 

■jj^i ■ 


t 

• - -S i‘ 


« 

i ♦ 

‘ . •/ I’' 

^ 14 ’, • * ^ f 

• 

• 1 

’ *>1 * - 



‘’V* . . 



-■... 


’ ' u' ■ ‘ . -y ■•- .‘ 

> v.‘, ■ XTs.* ’ ^ • ‘ tj* ■ \ 'fc *‘ •- 

’ i.' .' ;'>,» 

i -r* - ^ kH 




^ «♦# W » X . . ♦ 

ii^-S: 'i. (Vrr.'I’i .*. 


»'J 






- -#' . - 
4^’'‘ '■ >t’^:^.Ci'^ ■ 

■ls * 


, , * n-i*- r 

•fc 


r' 

’2? r' 

V 

j» 

4,-_*v 

_ . « • ^* 

P&M r* 

Ht-# 




'i '' ■ ■ 4 


FROM A LOST SOUL 273 

pieces of silver. But the soul lives not in hell who 
would care to save him at the cost even of a kiss; he is 
an object of repugnance to every one. I too burst away 
from him horrified. 

I came across a scrap of newspaper the other day, 
and my eye was caught by an advertisement offering 
“ bridal bouquets and funeral wreaths in great variety.” 
And just beneath it a stationer expressed his willing- 
ness to sell hand-painted cards for the menu of wed- 
ding breakfasts and “ In Memoriam ” of the dead. 
Such is life, I said; side by side grow the flowers for 
the adorning of brides and the crowning of corpses. 
Better sometimes the latter than the former; better to 
be clasped in the embrace of death than find love dy- 
ing before its time. 

Memorial cards! how touching and — how cheap! 
How we love to speak of the virtues of our departed 
ones, mourning them ostentatiously, and assuring the 
world we shall miss them forever. Forever? Look 
into your own heart, my friend, and expect not to be 
remembered too long when you are gone. Love’s 
wreaths will fade on your grave, and the night-winds 
alone will keep up their moaning around. 

What is this buzzing about me like troublesome 
flies — memories? 

I once had taken a youth into my service. He was 
a kind of legacy of Aunt Betty’s, and for her sake I 
intended to be kind to him. But somehow I was al- 
ways finding fault with him. There are people who 
rouse our evil nature, for no reason’^one can see. Poor 
fellow ! — perhaps he was not over bright, though he 
tried his best. But patience was not one of my virtues. 


A MESSAGE 


274 

I scolded him almost continuously, taking a kind of 
satisfaction I believe in thus revenging myself on what 
I considered his stupidity. I well remember the many 
hard words I flung at him, provoked from bad to 
worse by his meek sorrowful countenance. At last I 
said I could not bear his fooPs face any longer and 
gave him warning. I did help him to another place, 
where I fancy he was more kindly used than with me. 
But it was a disheartening beginning for one who had 
to make his way in service; and he had deserved better 
at my hands. When he had left me I discovered all 
sorts of little proofs of his touching fidelity and grate- 
ful disposition. How badly I had rewarded the poor 
fellow for such golden qualities ! 

It could not be called a great matter, but it left a 
sting. 

My town residence had the rare amenity of a little 
garden; it was shut in at the farther end by a blind 
wall forming the back of a humble dwelling in the 
rear. But the wall was not quite blind; it had one 
little window not far from the ground — to my notion, 
the one eye of the house which kept looking into my 
privacy. I had no need to think so, for behind that 
window sat a poor seamstress who had something more 
to do than watch my movements. True, she would 
now and then look up from her needle, as if she de- 
lighted in my garden; and she even dared sometimes 
to put her head out of window to enjoy the fragrance 
of my flowers. There could be no harm in that, but 
I disliked it. And availing myself of the letter of the 
law, I ran up a paling a few feet from the wall. 

The right of doing so was mine, but it was very 
wrong. The poor creature had delighted in my gar- 
den, the proximity of which had helped her through 


FROM A LOST SOUL 275 

many a joyless day. She loved flowers, and the sight 
of green things was grateful to her hard-worked eyes. 
There was a few thrushes in the garden and she was 
cheered by their song. My fence was simply cruel, 
depriving her not only of these enjoyments, but of 
fresh air as well, and of the light she sorely needed — 
I had shut her out from her share of the sky. 

I had acted heedlessly, and I came to see it before 
long; good-nature even was stirred, and I actually re- 
solved to make amends. I went round to the back 
street, but was too late; the poor girl had been obliged 
to leave her little room, over which the struggles of ten 
lonely years had throwm a halo of home. 

Neither was this a great matter; but little things 
make up the sum of good or evil in life. I feel sore 
at heart. 

I had gone out riding one day; it was in the coun- 
try, and I intended to look up a farmer in a small 
village, but did not know his house from the surround- 
ing homesteads. The place seemed asleep in the noon- 
day sun, not a youth within hail to whom I might 
have thrown the bridle. Looking about, I saw an open 
cottage-door and the figure of a young girl appearing 
on the threshhold; I called her and she promised to 
mind the animal, seeming half shy, half ready to please 
me. 

I went on my business, and, returning, came upon 
an interesting spectacle. The mare had become un- 
manageable ; the young girl could hardly hold her, feel- 
ing evidently distressed by the creature’s pranks. Her 
efforts to subdue its gambols served as an admirable 
foil to her figure; her every movement was charming, 
and her pretty face reflected so delightfully both fear 
and vexation, that instead of hastening to her assistance, 


A MESSAGE 


276 

I stood still behind a shrub watching complacently 
what I considered an exquisite scene. 

There was no danger involved. The mare was not 
vicious — only frolicsome; but the rustic beauty did 
not understand that, and was evidently frightened, hold- 
ing fast by the bridle, jumping now right, now left, 
her lithe figure following the capering animal. It was 
merely to ingratiate herself with the damsel that the 
mare tossed its head, plunging again as if to snap at 
her kerchief, which now slipped from her shoulders 
revealing the whitest of necks. And behold, the masses 
of golden hair escaped their confinement falling in a 
shower of ringlets as though to veil her charms. Her 
distress increased visibly, a deep glow mantling her 
features, her bosom heaving. Now on tiptoe, now 
curving her outstretched arms, bending this way, bend- 
ing that, she delighted me with her graceful move- 
ments. 

But there was a sudden end to my enjoyment. She 
caught sight of me, and I was obliged to approach. 
Had she let go the mare, it would have been no more 
than I deserved; but she held on faithfully till I was 
near enough to take hold of the bridle myself. There 
she stood burning with shame and anger, her eyes 
brimming with tears. Before I mounted I endeavored 
to slip half-a-crown into her hand; but she turned from 
me proudly, the coin rolling at my feet. 

Surely no great matter. I had wronged the girl, 
by being unkind to her, while revelling in the sight of 
her beauty; but she came to no harm. On the contrary, 
I have a sort of conviction that the little adventure 
proved a useful lesson, teaching her to beware of ad- 
miring fops. 

Nevertheless, memories will not be silenced. Justice 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


277 

is the law of life, be it in the world, or in heaven, or 
in hell; and every act of man, though it contain but a 
shadow of wrong, calls for atonement, unless God 
Himself in His mercy will blot it out. 

I know it now — I know it — who shall free me 
from even such guilt? 

Do you see that tree? Often and often I sink 
down beneath it with groans of regret, for on its 
branches are gathered the opportunities of a wasted 
life. They keep falling down on me, ready to crush 
me. I am often driven thither by the lashes of the 
awful Inevitable. How happy I might have been, how 
much I might have done in the days of golden possi- 
bility. 

But I would not! As a blind man I walked in life, 
careless of light. It is dark now, but I can see — I 
do see — the failure of my days. 

17 


LETTER XXIII. 


If memory takes me to the Holy Land now, I seem 
to roam through its length and breadth as a broken- 
hearted pilgrim questioning every spot for the Saviour 
of men, but unable to find Him, with whom there is 
forgiveness of sin. In the blessed days I spent there 
actually, peace was offered me daily, hourly; but I was 
too much engrossed with my own vain thoughts to be 
anxious for the unspeakable gift. An angel of God 
walked beside me, whose influence .over me was mar- 
velous. Lily’s faith and piety were as sunbeams to 
my heart; I felt the vivifying touches, and more than 
once was near yielding up my sinful being, my life and 
all, for so precious a Saviour — her Saviour — who 
was ready to be mine; but at the decisive moment self- 
love, writhing in agony, shot up within me as a flame 
of hell, blinding the eyes. I saw not Him, but only 
a fair girl by my side — the aim of my earthly hopes 
and all but mine already, who, alas, should soon cost 
me the hardest of all conflicts, even a wrestling with 
death. 

O Galilee, thou land of beauty! How fine is the 
contrast between Judaea, dark, wild, and waste, and 
thine own fair, genial tracts. And of all places none 
more sublime than Mount Tabor. In glorious solitude 
it rises from the broad expanse, lifting a precipitous 
front north, south, east, and west. Clothed to the top 
with woods and shrubberies, its evergreen oaks and 
pines seem to vie in beauty. And the place is rich in 
aromatic plants. Never anywhere have I met such 
278 


FROM A LOST SOUL 279 

freshness — such exuberance of nature. From the 
south only the mount is accessible, a path winding to 
the very summit, revealing fresh charms of landscape 
at every turn; and rising from the sunburnt plain, you 
enter regions of air more pure and balmy than you ever 
dreamt of. The way is longer than you expected, but 
repays you amply; and as you reach the summit behold 
a tableland of some three miles in circumference, an 
expanse of richest greensward and splendid groups of 
trees. You enter this retreat of beauty by a ruined 
gate in the west. Remains of enclosures and turrets, 
of grottoes and cisterns, meet the eye at every turn — 
memorials of a mysterious past which tell of an en- 
campment or even a city that may have stood here. 
But now peace has her dwelling there, if anywhere in 
the world, with a sense of security and calm. No won- 
der that Peter exclaimed: “ Lord, it is good for us to 
be here: if Thou wilt, let us make three tabernacles; 
one for Thee, and one for Moses, and one for Elias.” 

We had begun the ascent towards evening, and 
though it was but March the day had been oppressively 
hot; it was like a deep draught of refreshment, there- 
fore, to reach the cool balmy height. We felt as 
though admitted into Paradise. Just before sunset we 
gained the top; and finding ourselves unexpectedly upon 
that glorious tableland, commanding so boundless a 
view, a deep silence fell upon us — the whole of Gali- 
lee, nay, the greater part of the Holy Land, at our 
feet ! 

I looked towards Lily, for it was through her that 
the best of impressions at all times reached me. The 
setting sun was weaving a halo about her, casting a 
roseate glow on her beauty, which more than ever 
looked as though it were not of earth. I had often 


28 o 


A MESSAGE 


felt this, but never so fully before. And the glory 
of earth and sky about us seemed as nothing, compared 
to the uplifting radiance that spoke to me from Lily’s 
face. She stood wrapt in worshipping delight. 

Bear with me, my friend, if I seem lengthy, carry- 
ing thee back again and again to scenes dead and gone. 
It may seem foolish in a poor lost one like me, but 
even that is not of my choice ! I am forever driven 
back upon my own past, and what was happiness then 
is misery now — ay, hopeless despair. 

Towards the north we looked away over the hills 
of Galilee to the snowy peaks of Lebanon and the 
regions of Damascus. Nestling at our feet were the 
little towns of Galilee, Cana, Nazareth, and Nain, with 
their holy memories. Westward lay the plain of Es- 
draelon, steeped in charm, with Carmel beyond, and 
the sea suffused with the light of the setting sun. 
Brook Kison, winding through the valley like a ribbon 
of sheen, guides the eye to the headland overhanging 
the Mediterranean. Turning to the east your gaze is 
captured by the beauty of Lake Gennesareth, with the 
small town of Tiberias, now in ruins. Not far off 
is Capernaum, and beyond the lake the desert where 
Christ fed the multitude. To the south are Mount 
Hermon and the hills of Samaria. Farther still, be- 
yond Jericho, the lonely height where the Son of God 
fasted and was tempted by Satan. Your eye wanders 
away over Jordan to Bethabara, where John baptized; 
over the Red Sea to Mount Nebq, in the land of the 
Moabites, where Moses died; and in the distant haze 
you descry the boundless desert of Arabia. 

The sun was sinking — nay, it fell into the sea, glow- 
ing like a ball of flame, and sudden darkness over- 
spread the land. But our people had been busy; a 


FROM A LOST SOUL 281 

tent was ready to receive my mother and Lily, for we 
intended to spend the night on Tabor. Our mules 
enjoyed their liberty and the succulent grass. A fire 
had been lit with odoriferous branches of cedar, and 
a simple supper was being prepared. Every hand was 
busy, excepting the Turks, our escort, who looked on, 
lazily contemplative, enjoying their evening hookah. 
Those sunset scenes making ready for the night, how 
soothing they had always been to my restless soul! 
But that evening on the Mount in Galilee was one of 
the last restful evenings I knew on earth. 

When darkness had set in we lit more fires and 
placed the necessary outposts, for nowhere in the Holy 
Land is one safe from an attack of Bedouins. But 
it was easy to secure our position here; the place was 
a fortress in itself. 

Having retired within the tent, we passed an hour 
by the subdued glow of a lamp, Lily presently taking 
her Bible and reading to us the story of the Trans- 
figuration. Pier voice to me was ever as “ a cool hand 
laid on an aching brow,” sufficient in itself to attune 
my soul to worship. I listened, anxious to listen. Yet 
it was but as a transient breath of even in a sultry 
atmosphere; my spirit soon would flag, fluttering help- 
lessly, and unable to rise. 

“ Do you feel comfortable, Lily?” said I, on wish- 
ing her good-night. 

“ O yes,” she replied, with one of her happy smiles; 
“ I should like to live and die here.” 

I knew from her manner, and her eyes told me, that 
she had more to say. I bent my ear, and she whis- 
pered : 

“ Do not forget to say your prayers, Philip, on ly- 


282 A MESSAGE 

ing down to-night! Remember that our Lord prayed 
here for you also 1 ” 

A breath of life to touch me — my soul raised her 
wings. I went out deeply moved. 

My couch was prepared just outside the tent. I 
laid myself down wrapped in a burnous; but not to 
dispose myself to sleep at once. I must say my prayers. 
A prayer from the heart I think I had not known since 
the days of my childhood. Of late I had been trying, 
but always felt that something was wanting — alas, 
not merely something, but the thing that constitutes 
prayer — uplifting the heart toward God. I really en- 
deavored to collect my thoughts, but hither and thither 
they roamed against my will. It seemed vain for me 
to fold my hands, to move my lips — the spirit of 
prayer was absent. And yet I could not think of sleep- 
ing without first having prayed! Stillness seemed to 
have settled within the tent; but I, outside, could not 
rest me and be still. I looked up, wakeful, toward 
the starry sky. It seemed so near; but there was no 
peace in that feeling. It oppressed me — the enclosing 
firmament was like a prison. The voices of night be- 
gan to work on my fancy, and restlessness fevered my 
blood. There were sounds all about me — wild boars 
breaking through the brushwood, and jackals howling 
in the plain; the call of a night-bird in the trees min- 
gled with the strange gruntings of the sleeping Turks, 
who in dreamful unease added their share to the con- 
cert of discord that filled my ear. 

It was midnight. My repeater announced it as 
clearly as a church bell, I thought. I tossed impa- 
tiently, gazing into the dying embers. There was 
something quieting in the sinking glow — it held me 
still. And presently I thought I heard Lily’s voice, 


FROM A LOST SOUL 283 

reading how the Saviour was transfigured on the 
Mount. Yea, and I saw Him standing between Moses 
and Elias in heavenly glory. Upon that vision I closed 
my eyes. And behold my soul had been praying! 
The spirit, freed for a moment from the trammels of 
the flesh, had risen to Him. I could sleep now, and 
slept quietly till dawn. 

The glow was deepening on the heights of Ashta- 
roth, beyond the sea of Galilee, as I approached the 
northern slope. I was standing by a choked-up cistern, 
awaiting the yet veiled glory with eyes riveted on the 
eastern sky, when a light figure came up behind me. 
It was Lily, quietly putting her arm within mine. We 
spoke not, but together we gazed toward the far shore 
of morning that overflowed with light. How sacred 
was its calm I 

But now the sun appeared, a well-spring of splen- 
dor, flashing from height to height, and setting a halo 
on Carmel r for the west lay steeped in wonder, and 
the sea caught every sparkling beam. 

“ O, Philip, surely this is the beauty of holiness,” 
whispered Lily; “ let us praise the Lord! ” I had no 
words, but wrapped my burnous about her, for a cold 
wind swept the Mount. 

The valleys lay yet hidden in mist and darkness, but 
there seemed a fluttering movement in the cloudy cover- 
let — a sudden rent, and through it appeared a shining 
cupola and the white glittering walls of a little town/, 
like a revelation from another world. 

“ Nazareth ! ” cried Lily, in happy surprise. “ O 
Philip, look! we have it all here; sweet gracious Naz- 
areth and holy Tabor. He humbled Himself, yet was 
the beloved Son, in whom the Father was well pleased.” 

She only said He as the thought of Him moved in 


A MESSAGE 


284 

her heart, filling her soul. I had no need to ask her 
meaning. How wide were her sympathies, how' keen 
her perception of beauty, but her deepest life owned 
Him Lord, and Him alone. 

The sun having fully risen, we walked back to the 
tent. 

“ It is here He was transfigured,” said Lily, pres- 
ently, stopping short and looking about her with rever- 
ential awe; “but not yet had He accomplished what 
He had come to do — the will of His Father, to the 
death, even on the Cross. Not yet had He drunk the 
bitter cup — Gethsemane, Gabbatha, Golgotha ! But 
here for a moment He was uplifted into the glory that 
awaited Him at the right hand of God; and thus 
strengthened He went forth to the humiliation and 
suffering that lay before Him. Philip,” she added, “ is 
not this a holy example for all God’s children? We, 
too, have a path of sorrow to tread, many a trial to 
go through; but we, too, may have a foretaste of the 
joy to come, the perfect liberty promised, and it may 
help us to reach the end. Without this grace divine 
many a burdened soul might fail on the road, for life 
seems hard at times. We have been strengthened by 
a vision on this mount; . . . my heart is very 

full. My spirit rejoices; ... let me join in the 
new song to the glory of the Lamb ! ” 

Was that Lily? Yet it was not for the first time 
she had spoken out of the fulness that moved her. 
Every day of late had made her more fit for heaven; 
even I saw it. But I trembled at the inward beauty 
she unfolded, which seemed one with her ardent desire 
to go behind the veil. 

“ I cannot help telling you, dear,” she continued, 
clinging to me for support. “ I feel as if I could not 


FROM A LOST SOUL 285 

breathe agaia down there in the everyday world. It 
is a happy feeling, yet fraught with pain. I do not 
say I would give the rest of my life, but I would give 
much for a few quiet days up here! ” 

“Would it really make you happy, Lily?” said I, 
sadly. 

“ Oh yes, Philip, and well too I I seem to breathe 
easier, and my heart is free.” 

“ Well, then, ask mother about it. I am satisfied 
with whatever pleases you, sweetest Lily.” 

The mountain seemed astir now, and the encamp- 
ment full of life. Our people were wide awake, Turks 
and all; some making coffee, others baking cakes of 
wheat or maize on heated stones; others again tending 
the animals or polishing their arms. The Turks looked 
on complacently. Having accomplished their matu- 
tinal devotions, they lighted their pipes and allowed 
others to do the work. But there was life too beyond 
the camp — herds of goats browsing far and near. A 
cool wind played about the tree-tops, and the flowers 
looked more gay in the light of morning. 

My mother raised no objection to Lily’s desire; she 
had been strangely ready of late to humor her, from 
a feeling perhaps that we should not have her much 
longer. 

So we remained, and we all liked it. It was, to 
tell the truth, a charming mode of spending a few 
days — camping gipsy fashion on so lovely a spot, high 
above the work-a-day world, with a view over all the 
land — the Holy Land — in the purest of atmospheres, 
amid scenes of nature, rich, balmy, and fragrant as 
Eden itself, and in absolute calm. It was a time of 
blessing, truly. And Lily revived; there was no trou- 
bled beating of the heart, no sudden throbbing of the 


286 A MESSAGE 

pulse — I knew, for often would I hold the dear little 
hand quietly nestling within mine — no tell-tale flushes 
dying away in pallor. Her face wore a delicate bloom. 
I almost believed in the wonder-working power of the 
sacred Mount. I was myself again, casting fears to the 
wind, and adding my share to the happiness of the 
moment. 

In the course of the forenoon pilgrims of every hue 
and nation arrived, with cripples and sufferers in the 
rear. Fortunately, our encampment was at some dis- 
tance from the actual sanctuary, which saved us from 
being overrun. It was a sad and almost sickening 
sight; but Lily did not think so. On the contrary, she 
was all sympathy, yearning to help where she could. 
To the poor she offered money, to the sick medicine, 
the comfort of a helpful word to all. Love trembled 
in her eyes, gathering sweetly at her lashes. How beau- 
tiful she was, her dress half eastern and altogether 
charming; how lovely she looked, gliding about from 
one miserable pilgrim to another; and they all under- 
stood her, knowing never a word of her language ! 

Towards evening I received a visit from the chief 
who had undertaken to be responsible for our safety 
from Nazareth to Samaria. He had been hunting on 
the Mount, and was now coming with a splendid retinue 
to pay his respects to me, and present me with a wild 
boar he had killed. Of course I had to return the 
compliment, and indeed his attention to me was wordiy 
of an acknowledgment. True, he robbed me of the 
precious evening I had intended to spend alone with 
my mother and Lily, instead of which I now was 
obliged to play the amiable host, presiding at an extem- 
porized feast. I did my best — in conversation too, 
which, helped on by a dragoman, was a patron of flow- 


FROM A LOST SOUL 287 

ery speeches. One comfort was left — Lily watched 
use from the distance, and seemed intensely amused. 
The Emir on quitting expressed himself highly sensible 
of my attempts to do him honor; and with thank- 
worthy politeness he pitched his camp half-way down 
the Mount, leaving the upper domain to ourselves. 

But enough! It is no healthy craving that urges 
me to enlarge upon this sort of thing amid the horrors 
of hell. You may turn for the rest of it to Chateau- 
briand or Lamartine if you like. Fool! — fool that I 
am, even in the realms of death! 


LETTER XXIV. 


Adventures of all kinds are of daily occurrence here, 
but they are void of interest. Like everything else in 
hell they mock us with emptiness — mere shadows of 
things left behind. 

Not long ago, at a lonesome spot, a young woman 
flung herself into my arms, not for love of me, but 
for horror of another. She was being pursued, and a 
sensation of fear, natural to her sex, startled her into 
a show of weakness. It was foolish in her; she might 
have known that she could not really be harmed, and 
that whatever cause of fear there might be, I had no 
power to help her. But such things will happen here; 
we live in the notions brought hither from the world, 
no matter how clearly we see them to be meaningless. 
It was quite conceivable, then, that the tender creature 
I held in my arms should have been sufficiently dis- 
tressed to seek the protection of my manhood. 

I gave her time to recover herself, and then in- 
quired into the nature of her alarm. She lifted a pair 
of eyes to me, tenderly trustful, like a turtle dove’s, 
but trembling afresh, as if the very question were too 
much for her shy and gentle disposition. However, 
she found courage to reply: 

“ He is always after me. I do not know his name 
— he is seeking for Beatrice. He fancies I am she.” 

I knew at once whom she meant. That man is one 
of the public characters in hell, if I may say so. It 
is an ill-chosen expression, but descriptive terms ac- 
quired in the world are apt to be inadequate here. In 
288 


FROM A LOST SOUL 289 

hell all are public, yet none is sO' in the sense you would 
attach to that word. What I mean to convey is simply 
this, that the man she spoke of is known throughout 
the regions of hell, pointed at by young and old; and 
that wherever he goes he is mocked with his own con- 
stant cry: “ Where is Beatrice? Can any one tell me 
where to find her?” This question is for ever in his 
mouth. Beatrice seems his one thought, and the getting 
hold of her his mania. He is convinced she must be 
in hell; “ for,” says he — but let me cast a veil over 
the poor girPs history. Enough that he seeks her with 
such brutish eagerness as I have not known even in 
this place. But he looks for her in vain. He is one 
of the most repulsive beings I have met, and that, 
surely, means a good deal here. He must be vice per- 
sonified, all human feelings burnt out of him; nothing 
remaining but the one wild inhuman passion that has 
possessed him. And then the horrible wounds disfigur- 
ing his body, his life-blood for ever gushing through 
every one of them! He is a refuse of the vilest in 
hell. No wonder that the poor shamefaced creature 
was filled with horror at the sight of him. 

“ Then you are not Beatrice? ” I said. 

“No,” she replied, with the meekest of looks. “ I 
am Emily.” 

Our acquaintance did not proceed farther on that 
occasion; but I somehow felt sure I should meet her 
again. 

Having left her for the present, I could not but 
occupy my mind with her. How was it possible, I 
thought, that such a creature as this Emily should have 
come to hell? She seemed an image of fairest woman- 
hood. True, beauty alone is no safeguard; on the con- 
trary, some of the most favored in this respect would 


290 A M^ESSAGE 

seem to be here. But her utter gentleness and simple- 
hearted sweetness — her modest bearing — must be 
genuine, I thought. A veil of purity seemed to be cast 
about her, despising dissimulation. There was a grace 
not only in her face and figure, but in her every move- 
ment, that might well claim to be the garment of an 
innocent soul. And then, so young, — a very child to 
the world, surely. She might be nineteen, but one 
would hardly credit even that. I saw she had been 
married, for she wore a ring; but she looked hardly 
grown-up. Now, the true simplicity of innocence is 
admired by the most worldly even — how justly so may 
be inferred from the fact that it does not exist here. 
It is rare on earth; but some women seem to preserve 
the heart of childhood in spite of the promptings of 
the flesh and the devil. Emily, to all appearance, 
seemed to be one of these chosen few. As a grown 
child she looked whose feet could never have been 
soiled with the mire of the world. How, then, did 
she come to wake in hell? Involuntarily I thought 
of the awful truth that the heart is unclean by nature, 
no matter what graces may twine about it, and though 
its lot be cast in the fairest of paths. 

I met her again before long, and, unnoticed by her, 
watched her at leisure. She sat apart, deeply engrossed, 
and offering a sight both attractive and singular. Her 
attire was of cloister-like simplicity, utterly white, the 
ample folds enveloping her slender form, — purely 
white from top to toe, without a shadow of coloring, 
and contrasting strangely with the surrounding dark- 
ness. One thing only seemed wanting to crown the 
Indescribable gracefulness of her appearance with the 
perfection of beauty — peace — which, of course, she 
had not. Her delicately shaped hands moved busily 


FROM A LOST SOUL 291 

in her lap. I discovered, after a while, that a pre- 
cious necklace occupied her attention, the pearls of 
which she kept counting, now beginning at one end, 
now at the other, but always stopping at the center, 
and dropping it again to wring her hands. I fancied 
I saw tears in her eyes; but that of course was not so. 

I moved up to her presently. 

“ Are you la dame blanche? I said. 

It was a stupid question, since there are so many 
ladies owning this title. 

But she only shook her head, saying: “No, I am 
Emily Fleming.” 

“ Fleming and Sparkman? ” I ejaculated, surprised, 
naming a highly respected firm. 

She nodded, heaving a deep sigh. What could she 
mean? Was she some member of a well-known fam- 
ily? 

But she, meanwhile, had replaced the pearls on her 
neck, sitting motionless with folded hands. I hasten 
to add that no one ever succeeds here in folding hands 
aright — that also is of the past. She appeared lost 
in sorrowful thought. 

“ Poor child ! ” I cried, “ you seem very unhappy.” 

“ Yes — yes, I am,” she sobbed. “ I have sustained 
a loss which I can never make good.” 

“What is it you have lost, poor Emily?” 

“A pearl — a pearl,” she murmured, wringing her 
white little hands. 

“ A pearl ! ” I echoed — a slight thing, surely, to be 
cast into hell for. And yet there are goodly pearls! 
Was not there a man who sold all he had that he 
might buy one pearl of great price ? 

“ Well, perhaps you may find it again,” I said, anx- 
ious to be kind; but it was foolish. 


292 


A MESSAGE 


“ Do you think so?” she said, brightening. “ But, 
alas! I have sought for it for years and years.” 

The memory of a promise seemed hovering about 
me, that those who seek shall find; but I could not 
shape the words, and only said vaguely: 

“If you have sought so long already you may be 
all the nearer the finding.” 

It was the vainest of speeches, but it broke down 
the reserve about her heart. She seemed to trust me, 
and before long she told me the history of her life. 
It cost her a real effort to do so — I saw that well 
enough; but the longing to unburden oneself is irre- 
sistible with us. And, moreover, the veil of secrecy 
is always being lifted here from every soul. 

“ You seem to be acquainted with the house of Flem- 
ing and Sparkman,” she began; “perhaps the present 
heads of the firm were known to you. But my history 
takes me back — ah, let me see — for seven genera- 
tions. How long it seems 1 ” 

“ As a light-hearted girl of sixteen I became the bride 
of Robert Fleming, and he brought me, a happy young 
wife, to the old family house. On the day we were 
married he gave me a precious necklace, worth a man’s 
ransom, as the saying is. And before fastening it on 
my neck he spoke to me about every pearl in particular, 
adding a meaning to their value, which comes back to 
me now with terrible force. “ The large blue pearl 
in the center — a gem rather,” he said — “ signifies 
your wedded troth; the deep red one your true love; 
and that white one your innocence. The lesser pearls 
on both sides make up the number of wifely virtues — 
each pearl for a grace — and there are many you see. 
And that which holds them together, making them your 


FROM A LOST SOUL 293 

own precious adornment, is chastity and womanly 
honor.” 

“ With his own hand he fastened the costly gift on 
my neck. His words had impressed me but slightly; 
I was young and delighted in the splendid ornament. 
But, alas! the time came when I could but remember 
them in tears. . . . Look at my necklace! The 

pearls are all there, but the central gem is missing. 
And the loss of that pearl has ruined me. 

“ Did I love my husband? I do not know what to 
say honestly. Perhaps I did not love him as I might 
have loved another. But I must own that wedded life 
at first seemed happy; he loved me, and two sweet 
little babies crowned our union. 

“All went well till a friend of my husband’s entered 
our house — a man as false as fair. I cannot tell how 
it was, but he cast a spell over me. Was it that I loved 
him? The affection I felt for my husband was quite 
different, and I am sure it was true; but he somehow 
had never waked in me the intoxicating rapture which 
that other one called forth. I felt it welling up in 
flames of fire whenever he came near me. Was it 
madness? was it witchery? I think it was a power of 
evil seizing upon the heated blood rather than on the 
mind or heart. It worked as a subtle poison; but 
though a poison it was very sweet. In vain I struggled 
against it. Yet I can hardly say that I struggled, for 
although I knew those feelings to be evil, I loved to 
dally with them, and the will to conquer was in abey- 
ance. 

“ Being alone with him one day, he caught me in 
his arms. I offered no real resistance. I felt over-' 
taken, and a sensation as of swooning seemed upper- 
most. Yet I must have made some involuntary move- 
18 


294 A MESSAGE 

ment of escaping from his hold; for the string of my 
necklace giving way suddenly, the pearls rolled hither 
and thither about the apartment. That brought me 
back to myself. It was as though an invisible hand 
were attempting to part us. We started asunder. 

“Yes, we had been sobered all at jonce, reality star- 
ing us in the face. I drew myself up, requesting his 
immediate departure, and he obeyed. I was anxious 
to look for my pearls, and happily I found them all, 
one only remaining lost, the blue one of wedded troth. 
Alas ! how earnestly I sought for it, morning, noon, and 
night, but it had disappeared as by magic. I succeeded 
in keeping the fact from my husband for some time, and 
I permitted no foot save mine to enter the fatal room. 
I sought and sought, but the precious pearl was lost. 
And at last there was a day when my husband saw 
that it was gone. It was a terrible moment ! He said 
little, but from that hour a gloom rested on his brow, 
which spoke more loudly than words could have done. 
I understood it — “ Thy troth is broken, thy purity 
lost; thou art no more for me! ” 

“ The false friend also seemed stirred in conscience ; 
he kept away. How it was with him I know not, but 
in me the fire had been kindled which burned with a 
hidden flame. My heart had conceived sin, and the 
wicked image would not be banished. I strove against 
it feebly; it was stronger than I. My inward gaze 
followed him spellbound; and with him was my every 
thought. Even in dreams I was his. Sin had gained 
an ascendency over me, and I yielded helplessly in the 
secret chamber of my heart. And yet that heart had 
been pure before it knew him,, and evil thoughts had 
never assailed it. Alas, how little is needed to mur- 
der innocence I The white robe of my soul was soiled. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 295 

One only could have restored it to cleanness, — He who 
would not condemn the woman that was a sinner. But 
for Him I looked not, grovelling as I lay at the feet 
of an idol. 

“ I fell ill, and even in illness my folly was upon 
me, burning within. The wild fancies of fever must 
have laid bare my inmost soul to my husband. My 
last thoughts on earth clung to that sinful moment 
that robbed me of my pearl. I was the prey of death 
— life vanished, and, lifting my eyes again, I found 
consciousness returning in the torment of hell. I have 
come to own the justice. . . 

There was a pause of silence, and then Emily con- 
tinued: 

“ Do you know what it is to go back as a restless 
spirit to the upper world? No? Then you are a 
stranger happily to a cruel law ruling some of us here. 
/ could not rest in hell; go back I must to seek my 
pearl. I have been seeking — seeking — these centu- 
ries past, but it is hopelessly lost. . . . 

“ I cannot tell you what I felt on first returning, 
a disembodied soul, to my former home. I trembled 
as one on forbidden ground. 

“ Not a corner of the big old house I left unhaunted; 
in passages and rooms, from cellar to garret, I have 
been looking for my pearl, spreading terror everywhere. 
But the horror seems to recoil upon me, filling me with 
fear and trembling. Every inmate of that house, at 
one time or another, has seen the white lady looking 
for something with a lamp. I am. more dreaded than 
the nearness of death itself. One old servant only of 
the present household seems able to bear the sight of 
me. He has seen me so often that I believe he has got 
used to me; he folds his hands in silent prayer, and heeds 


A MESSAGE 


296 

me not. It happens sometimes that we meet and meet 
again in the long dusky passages, he following his busi- 
ness, I bent on mine, with that difference between us, 
that he walks in confidence and I in despair. But it 
comforts my poor trembling heart to come upon his 
well-known figure in the lonely halls. I have known 
him from his youth upward, watched him doing his 
duty in uprightness of soul. His hair is white now and 
his figure stooping; but the nearer death he seems, the 
more courageous he looks, and the greater his fearless- 
ness in m.eeting me. He alone appears to feel no hor- 
ror at my approach, nor need he. I have as little 
power to harm him as he has to stop me. I can only 
look for my pearl ! 

“ I hasten to the well-known chamber. This is the 
spot where for one fatal moment I yielded my soul 
to sin and was lost in consequence. Here it was 
that my jewel vanished. Here, then, I seek most 
anxiously and with indescribable longing. But the 
pearl need not be here; some one may have found it 
and taken it away. That is why I search the house, 
every chamber and every closet, peeping into my lady’s 
jewel-case, and into the work-box of the humblest serv- 
ant-maid. It is chiefly among the women of the house- 
hold that I look for the gem I lost. 

“ I flit through corridors. One of them since time 
immemorial has been used as a picture gallery. Here 
I find the lifelike image of the husband I so cruelly 
wronged. I dare not lift my eyes to it, yet I seem 
rooted to the ground there for hours. I keep thinking, 
might there not be an expression in his face, — the 
shadow even of an expression, — promising forgiveness 
and restoration? But I dare not look for it; I creep 
away, guilt trailing behind me. 



HE FOLDS HIS HANDS IN SILENT PRAYER, AND HEEDS 

ME NOT. 




FROM A LOST SOUL 


299 

“ Guilt and shame, for my own picture hangs by the 
side of his, filling the measure of silent reproach. I 
fancy that picture to be my real self in youth and in- 
nocence — myself being but a miserable counterfeit. 

“ The pictures of my children too, my lovely babes ! 
My heart yearns for them who once found their heaven 
at my breast. But, alas, they are strangers to me now ; 
they look down upon me with eyes that know me not. 
Them also I betrayed, robbing them of their mother’s 
love, and they need me not ! I drop my eyes in bitter 
shame, and hurry away. 

“ Some seven generations I have seen come and go, 
the bonds of blood uniting us; but not only have they 
learned to look upon me as an intruding stranger, but 
to shun me as a very vision of hell. 

“ The venerable house has fallen into evil repute 
as being haunted. The family have often thought of 
leaving it or pulling it down, but somehow their for- 
tunes seem bound up with that ancient pile, and quitting 
becomes impossible. They accept the trouble of my 
presence, and I flit about, a lifeless shade among the 
living. 

“ The absence of mystery too enables them to put 
up with me. I am known to be their ancestress, and 
my sad history in all its details is a matter of gossip; 
the very echoes of the house seem to whisper about 
the young wife who was so lovely but faithless. 

“ The fatal necklace is an heirloom in the family. 
But the central pearl is missing. A diamond cross 
has been added in its stead — the symbol of faith, if 
I remember aright. 

“ It is my necklace still. And whenever the owner 
for the time being is about to pass away, I appear by 


300 A MESSAGE 

her dying bed with the solemn question, “ Where is the 
pearl?” 

“ For several generations there was nothing but hor- 
ror by way of an answer, and, dismayed at the terrible 
confusion I created, I would hurry away in despair. 
But an expedient has been found. The dying women 
now invariably place their hand on their Bible, replying 
boldly, “The pearl is found! We have this as a 
pledge! ” It is not my lost pearl, you understand, but 
there is no gainsaying their reply. Ah me, had I 
found that pearl of great price which gives such as- 
surance to dying souls, I too might have had healing 
comfort for my loss. But the sin remains, my pearl 
is gone, and I am left to wail in torment ! ” 

She was silent, writhing in agony. But even now, 
though filled with despair, her face preserved an ex- 
pression of childlike loveliness and most engaging in- 
nocence. How bewitchingly beautiful she was! And 
I thought to myself, were it not that she stands con- 
demned out of her own mouth, and had another told 
me her story, it would seem impossible to believe it, to 
credit so fair a creature with such a measure of in- 
dwelling wrong. 

Behold the growth of passion! It is but a passing 
thought perchance, moving the heart. Whence is it 
— who can tell? Whence is the sudden cloud darken- 
ing the fair heaven? and whence the electric spark? 
Your mind conceives; and your heart, unless you guard 
it, will nurse the awful birth. The fiery influence * 
shoots through your being. Your nerves tremble, your 
blood is aflame. And though quiet may be restored, 
there is that within you which at any moment may 
course through your veins afresh. For remember, if 
you had an ocean of the red stream of life, one drop 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


301 

of poison might vitiate it. Alas, it is more than a 
drop; the tempting thought has grown to a power of 
evil possessing you — a nature within your nature — 
wild, lawless, and leading you captive. Sin has taken 
root in your soul, innocent though it found you. How 
far it may take you God alone can tell. 

Watch over your thoughts, then, lest they ruin your 
soul! Watch, I say, and stifle sin in its birth. It may 
be a small thing at first, but how awful is the growth, 
suffusing body and soul with poison, doubly dangerous 
for its seeming sweetness! Has it seized your heart 
— ah, fly to the Physician. 

Where is He? 

Alas, my friend, I know not. 


LETTER XXV. 


Snatches of song keep running in my head; it is 
not I who seize upon melody, but the melody takes 
hold of me. You little think what power of torment 
there may be bound up in music, and the sweeter its 
echoes, the more cruelly they fall upon the soul. I 
do not refer to memories that may be connected with 
sound; they may be very bitter, but we are used to that 
and can hardly expect it to be otherwise; it is not this 
I mean. But there is that in music which is utterly 
discordant with this place of woe, producing a terrible 
jar in the soul. Harmony and hell, — the bare thought 
is enough to distract you. What is music but a long- 
ing for the infinite, filling you with a foretaste of joy 
and beauty unspeakable ? But for us the truth of such 
longing has vanished, since we are for ever severed 
from that promised world, toward the shores of which 
the waves of highest melody will ever tend. Now only 
I understand the full power of music; but the knowl- 
edge is clothed with terrible pain, giving you a glimpse 
of Paradise, and leaving you in hell ! . . . 

What was the name of that place among the hills 
of Samaria where we rested one noonday hour in the 
shadow of palm trees? Was it not Shechem or Sychar? 
The people there will tell you that a certain broken 
cistern, which still yields water, is the identical well 
where Jacob wept for joy on seeing Rachel with her 
father’s sheep. Never have I known greener fields or 
more luxuriant vegetation than at this blessed spot, 
stern heights rising about you. The whole valley 
302 


FROM A LOST SOUL 303 

seemed a garden, rich in figs and mulberries, in pome- 
granates, vines and sycamores. The date-palm, the 
cactus, the aloe, grow in profusion; olive groves at the 
foot of the hills, pines and evergreen oaks climbing be- 
yond. 

But there was no rest for us by Jacob’s well. The 
heat was intense, even in the deepest shade, and the 
plague of insects was intolerable. We were glad, there- 
fore, to shorten our siesta and seek the cooler upland 
air. On the road Lily told me a story. 

Let me repeat it. Two things, however, may sur- 
prise you with regard to this narrative, which treats 
of faith — a weak wavering faith it is true, but seeking 
for strength. 

You may wonder in the first place that Lily should 
have told it, whose pure, steadfast, childlike faith never 
knew the sorrows of tempting doubt. Of course she 
may have read the story, but how she should give it 
with such vividness I cannot tell. 

You may be surprised, secondly, that I should repeat 
it who am for ever lost to the blessedness of believing. 
For had I but the poorest remnant left, this very fact, 
I doubt not, would bring me within the reach of salva- 
tion. It is memory only which has a hold of this little 
story; and though it may stir my feelings, the spirit is 
dead — dead. Pity me, my friend ; but you cannot un- 
derstand the fearful mockery of speaking of things per- 
taining to faith — the very life of the soul — and hav- 
ing no part in them ! They seem to rise before me, 
beckoning me to lay hold on them; I stretch forth my 
hand, and lo, there is a hopeless blank. 

It is just like trying to call back a face you have 
known; you see now the eyes, now the mouth, now this 


A MESSAGE 


304 

expression, now that; but the living whole will not re- 
turn to you. 

Yea, and it is a face for which I thirst and hunger 
— even the face of Him who died on the Cross. I 
can speak now of this feature, now that — of His 
wondrous love. His humility. His grace; but I cannot 
see Him — the Man of sorrows — who alone could 
yearn over a soul in hell. 

But enough ! Whatever trouble weighed upon the 
spirit of him of whom Lily’s story told, it must have 
been light and peace, compared with the fearful dark- 
ness enveloping me. 

This is what I remember: 

“ When the Apostle Peter took his last leave of the 
Christian people of Antioch, having set his face toward 
Rome to follow his Lord in death, a great number of 
the faithful, young and old, accompanied the beloved 
Father beyond the city. But they had to separate, 
weeping as He blessed them; and returning to their 
homes, they yielded their hearts to the will of God. 
The apostle went his way. 

“ But there was one, old in years, who, having shared 
in the parting benediction, yet followed in the distance. 
And Peter, perceiving him, beckoned him to approach. 

“ ‘ Thou art troubled, my son,’ said the aged apostle, 
with winning love ; ‘ what is it that oppresses thy 
heart? ’ 

“ ‘ Father,’ replied the stranger timorously, ‘ is it 
not faith which justifies man in the sight of God, and 
makes him an heir of the kingdom ? ’ 

“‘Yea, surely. Canst thou not believe?’ 

“ ‘ I do believe, beloved Father, but I cannot tell 
whether it is saving faith. It seems so weak and wav- 
ering, and yet by faith alone I may reach to heaven. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 305 

That is my grief! I seem to be able to believe, fully 
and ardently at times, but not for long; and again I 
am left troubled and doubting. Faith seems to be 
shattered to pieces then, robbing me of all assurance, 
and were* it not for the blessed name of the Saviour, 
I had nothing left to cling to. I have known moments 
when I seemed to rise as on wings of trust, when the 
fulness of heaven seemed given me. At such times I 
tasted all the blessedness of believing that he who 
seeks shall find; that he who knocks shall be received 
of God; of believing fully that I, led and taught 
by the Holy Spirit, would never again wander away 
from my Father in heaven; that I was bought with a 
price, even the precious blood of Christ; and that His 
love would hold me safe to all eternity. I have known 
such faith as this, and, believe me. Father Peter, it was 
free from self-sufficient thoughts. And yet it cannot 
be saving faith; for at the very moment, sometimes, 
when my heart seemed nearest to the blessed commun- 
ion of my Saviour, sin was at hand, and I fell griev- 
ously, losing the sense of divine acceptance, and finding 
myself in the dust, bleeding and helpless, and more 
miserable than he whom the thieves left on the road 
to Jericho; but the Good Samaritan was far — far 
away 1 

“ ‘ Alas, Father, my sufferings at such times are 
great. The sneers of the unbelieving at the power 
of faith I could have borne; but that the experience 
of my own heart should confirm such doubt distresses 
me greatly. 

“ ‘ Yet so far I have always risen to my feet again, 
to renew the conflict; shutting my doors on unbelief, 
and willing to be led as a little child by Him who came 


A MESSAGE 


306 

to save. But woe is me, I am not saved — I think I 
am standing, and lo, I fall. 

“ ‘ I am truly grieved at this my state, but repent- 
ance never yet gained me that power of the Spirit that 
might fit me for more real fellowship with Christ. 
Alas, Father Peter, my sorest weeping avails me not. 
When thou hadst fallen, thou didst weep I know; but 
thou couldst rise from tears more firmly planted than 
before, never again to deny the blessed-Lord. But not 
so I — I fall, I weep ; I rise, I fall, denying the Master 
continually. 

“ ‘ You see, holy Father, what manner of faith this 
is ! There is but one thing I am sure of, even the 
name of the Saviour which alone has never left me; 
aught else is wavering and, I doubt me, no certain 
foundation. Had I not been troubled already, I must 
have been filled with fear and trembling on hearing the 
word lately- — Show thy faith by thy works! For 
alas my works, if not altogether evil, are full of im- 
perfection testifying against my faith. How, then, 
shall it save me, if this is all my hope of acceptance? 

“ ‘ I look back on life, and lo, I se'e a continued 
struggle — now in sorrow, now in despair. I will not 
say I have lost hope entirely; nay, I know that in spite 
of defeat I must go on battling, remembering that sal- 
vation is not of man’s striving, but of God’s giving. 
But I am old now, fast approaching the time when no 
man can work. Dare I hope for victory? will it be 
given to such weakness of faith? I am full of fear, 
clinging to the one hope only that the Good Samaritan, 
whose name I have believed in, for all my backslidings, 
will come to me at the last to lift me in His arms of 
pity and carry me home. 

“ ‘ But will He do it? He has bound up my wounds 


FROM A LOST SOUL 307 

again and again; will He accept me in the end? I dare 
not plead my faith, — weak and wavering as it is, I am 
altogether unworthy of His saving mercy. I have not 
loved Him as I ought ; even less than father or mother, 
or son or daughter, coming continually between me and 
Him. Ah, what shall I do to find His peace? what 
shall I do to be sure of being saved? ” 

“ The apostle had listened in silence. His counte- 
nance shone with a heavenly light, his eyes seeking for 
things afar. What was it that moved in his soul, radi- 
ating from his brow — what blessed memory of a day 
gone by? The Spirit had carried him back to the sea 
of Tiberias, and he hears the voice of the risen Sav- 
iour, ‘Simon, son of Jonas, lovest thou me?’ And 
how, as then, his heart makes answer, ‘ Yea, Lord, 
Thou knowest that I love Thee.’ And his Lord re- 
peats, ‘ Feed n>y sheep.’ 

“ My sheep ! He looked upon the aged man. Here 
was one of the Good Shepherd’s wandering sheep. 
And greatly moved, the apostle said : 

“ ‘ My brother, if faith, being poor, cannot help thee, 
try love. Mark my words; let it be thy one desire 
henceforth to show to the Lord that thou lovest Him. 
Let nothing be too great, and nothing too little, to do 
for His sake. Let love to Him be thy staff and thy 
strength, and thou shalt find peace for thy soul. Thy 
very endeavor to prove thy love to Him will make 
thee rich in the assurance of His love. It will fill thy 
soul, it will save thee utterly. Love for thee also will 
be the law’s fulfillment. 

“ ‘ Behold,’ he added, ‘ how wondrous is His love! 
steeping thee in blessing even while thou are sacrificing 
all. Whatever thou doest for Him comes back to thee. 
He never takes ; He only gives, fulfilling His own word 


A MESSAGE 


308 

that it is more blessed to give than to receive. Yet 
it is thy love He looks for.’ 

“ ‘ But what of faith, my Father,’ asked the stranger 
doubtingly, ‘by which alone we are said to live?’ 

“ A happy smile lit up the apostle’s countenance, and 
he replied: 

“ ‘ It will be well, my son, with faith even. Think- 
est thou it could be absent where love lives and moves? 
Go thy way, and hold fast that which thou hast; and 
grace and peace be with thee evermore.’ ” 

Have I not spoken some time ago of a peculiar pain, 
a separate sorrow? Ah, my friend, I have not told 
thee all. 

We are ever on the verge of despair; a touch, a 
thought only, and we are in the midst of it; it is 
incessantly welling up from the depth of our own heart, 
ready to engulf us. The mind at times resists with a 
frenzied power, but only to sink back in defeat. And 
the worst of it is that I am struggling as it were on 
both sides, offering agonized resistance, while turning 
tooth and nail against myself in maddest hatred. 

How long these fits may last I cannot tell; it is not 
with us as with you, that exhausted nature herself 
yields the remedy. There is no nature here, but only 
existence. 

But the paroxysm ceases. There seems to be a cli- 
max of fury; when I have beaten myself out, so to 
speak, there is a lull. 

But sometimes — ah ! this is the deepest experience, 
would I could say the most precious ! but that is more 
than hell admits of, — sometimes, as the waves of mad- 
ness sink away, there rises a vision of my soul, won- 
drous and holy, even the image of the Crucified One. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 309 

And there is a sudden calm, despair seems drowned, 
and all is still. Not that suffering ceases, but an all- 
enfolding sense of loss has swallowed up the rest. I 
stand accused — I hear a voice crying: “It is thou, 
thou who broughtst Him to the cursed tree I ” 

Did I say vision? Nay, the very word is too much. 
I was a prey to longing, but I dare not delude myself; 
such seeing is not for me. The hungry spirit im- 
agined for a moment — I see the Cross — the thorn- 
crowned figure — I look — and it is gone ! Yet I seem 
to feel it presently, if only I could pierce the hiding 
darkness. I gaze and gaze, but tenfold night enwraps 
the longing soul. 

Him who died I see not, but the Cross keeps dawn- 
ing forth and receding. Beyond it I get not. I once 
knew the story, but it is gone, gone; and the more I 
try to remember, the greater seems the blank. Tell 
me, ought I to despair, ought I to rejoice? I see a 
Cross truly, though an empty one! Did He not die 
on the Cross? Why should it keep rising before me? 
Is it for punishment? is it for hope? Was not there 
something about taking up the Cross and following? 

Happy, thrice happy, O men and women, having a 
cross to bear! Murmur not, but bear it willingly, lest 
the time come when ye long for it and find it an empty 
vision the very burden gone. 


LETTER XXVI. 


We were sitting together on a high cliff overlooking 
a northern sea. A few solitary trees stretched forth 
their branches above us, a landmark for vessels sailing 
by. Far below us the murmuring waves broke in melo- 
dious cadence, leaving their mysterious message with 
the lonely shore. 

Evening was stealing across the sky with those linger- 
ing touches known only in the distant north, night 
hesitating, though the sun be about to set. Sleeping 
nature there is curtained in a balmy twilight, steeped 
in the tints of vanished sunbeams, and hiding with ten- 
der shadows both land and sea. In the north only 
summer-time reaches its fullest meaning, each sinking 
day leading forth the radiant morn; darkness is not, 
but a dreamful dusk in its stead. Nothing more beau- 
tiful than those evening hours with their slowly settling 
calm; how enchanting the stillness, how full of poetry 
the hushed expanse, the slumbrous sea at your feet, and 
the distant shore blushing with the kisses of parting 
day. 

But I was heedless of it all, for she sat by me. 
Her deft little hands were busy with some needlework. 
I was to read to her, but the book had dropped from 
my hold, and I was fast losing myself in dreams. 
How sweet she was in her springtime of youth, just 
entering upon her sixteenth year. There was some- 
thing unutterably attractive in that first unfolding of 
womanhood, so tenderly appealing, so holy withal. 

She was very white, but it was the transparent white- 
310 


FROM A LOST SOUL 31 1 

ness of the lily suffused with a faint reflection of the 
sunset sky. The red life-stream of youth, fragrant and 
pure, throbbed beneath her delicate skin; it took but 
little to call up bewitching blushes to her lovely face. 
A wealth of hair crowned her; it fell in silky masses 
about her shoulders, and her long lashes appeared to 
withhold a depth of beauty from your longing gaze. 
There was something infinitely childlike about her 
mouth and the sweet oval of her face; but it blended 
with an impress of womanhood, a mystery to be wor- 
shipped. 

A peculiar stillness veiled her being — a calm of life, 
if so I may call it; the gentle breathing moved her 
bosom, and her hands flitted lightly about her work. 
She was busy with her own thoughts, which seemed to 
glide across her features like sunbeams, leaving a smile 
behind. 

As I sat wrapt in the sight of her, unconscious of 
aught else, I soon perceived glow chasing glow on 
her cheek, and mantling her brow. 

At last her eye met mine and she asked : 

“Why do you keep looking at me so persistently?” 

“ Why, Lily? Do you dislike it? ” 

“ I am sorry to seem unkind, Philip,” she said, “ but 
I do dislike it. If you stare at me like that I feel 
strangely troubled — like a bird held fast by cruel 
hands. I dd not know why; but you might stop it — 
could you not, dear?” 

“ Certainly,” I said, smiling at the simple question. 
“ But do you think I could harm you? Are you afraid 
of me ? ” 

“ Afraid of you ! ” she cried, roused to sprightli- 
ness; “that is strange. I might as well ask whether 
you are afraid of me — are you?” And she put her 

19 


A MESSAGE 


312 

little hand In mine. “Are you angry?” she went on 
gently^ after a while. 

“ When was I angry with you last, Lily; let me see? ” 

“ I don’t remember It In the least,” she said, bright- 
ening more and more. “ But come, we had better think 
1 of home now.” 

And she took my arm, looking at me with her trust- 
ful eyes, as If to say that fear of me was altogether 
Impossible. I laid hold of the thought, and felt 
happy again. 

We went along the cliff. It was a rich balmy even- 
ing In June. On the strand below, the fishing boats 
offered a busy scene; a few yachts in the distance glided 
before the breeze. And on the horizon an Island 
coast lay shrouded In a mystery of transfiguring light. 
It was one of those rare evenings when earth’s beauty 
seems touched with a reflection of heaven’s perfect 
bliss. 

“ Afraid of you ! ” Lily repeated, reverting gaily to 
the thread we had dropped. “ That was the strangest 
Idea you ever had ! On the contrary, I feel wonderfully 
secure and taken care of, and the thought of your man- 
liness fills me with pride. I fancy sometimes that 
strength Is given to you for me as well, — that you would 
never allow any one to hurt me, and I say to myself, 

, Who could resist him? It must be a grand thing to be 
a man and do noble things In life; but I think It Is bet- 
ter still to be a woman and be cared for by a man who 
Is noble and strong. And you know things much better 
than I do. They say there Is much evil In the world; 
It Is sad, but I suppose It Is true. Now a man with your 
knowledge sees things, and sees through them; he must 
be comparatively safe from evil, and be able to Lold 
others safe. That Is why I feel so happy by your side. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 313 

as though I could follow blindly wherever you lead 
me. I care not to be strong and clever myself, since 
I have all I need in you. You are noble, I am sure, 
and ready, not only to defend those you love, but even 
to give up anything for their sake. I like to fancy my- 
self in trouble and danger; it is quite a pleasant sensa- 
tion, so long as I have you near me. I am sure you 
would even risk your life for me, would you not? You 
smile; but don’t think me silly. I am quite sure you 
are good and noble and strong.” 

Of course I smiled. My soul seemed lit up as with 
a thousand stars, dispelling everything that need shun 
the light. What a wondrous power that child had 
over me, lifting me above myself into her own atmos- 
phere of purity ! I may well call it an influence divine. 
I seemed to rise from the dust and to be what she be- 
lieved me, — one stronger than she, good and wise, well 
fitted to be the guardian of her trustful life. O happy 
moment — never to return ! 

The evening was fading; we were not far from our 
dwelling. We had reached a place where we often 
rested, on the top of a towering cliff rising several hun- 
dred feet above the sea. At high-water the waves 
would beat about the foot of it, foaming and curling, 
and falling back exhausted. But the tide was low now, 
and the silvery ripples in the distance hardly touched 
the ear. On the top of the cliff a flagstaff had been 
erected, something in the shape of a cross; beneath it 
there was a low wooden bench. We sat down, Lily 
and I, as we had often done before. The top of the 
cliff was still within reach of the parting light; all about 
us — land, sea, and sky — seemed veiled in calm. We 
sat silent; a sacred stillness, the peace of nature at rest, 
enfolded our hearts. 


A MESSAGE 


314 

“ Look ! ” cried Lily suddenly, pointing upward. 

A flight of sea birds winging their way across the 
deep — high above us, but it was so still that we heard 
them plainly. We followed them with our eyes till 
they vanished in the dusk. 

“ They are gone,” said Lily with a deep-drawn sigh. 
“ Were they not like blessed souls journeying to the 
better land, where sorrow is not, nor death, nor pain, 
and tears are wiped away? How they must rejoice. 
What longing — what triumph ! ” 

Strange to say, a similar idea had come to me. My 
soul was open to uplifting thoughts. 

The silence was broken. And presently we talked 
about the music of the sea — the monotonous rhythm 
of which seems ever new. I compared the rising and 
sinking of the waters to a pendulum, measuring the 
ages of eternity. 

And we spoke of the wondrous longing in the human 
heart, ever reaching to that which is afar, above, be- 
yond; making it restless even in the lap of content. 

Again we were silent, and then Lily said: 

“ How beautiful that the sign of the Cross should 
overlook the sea from this high cliff ! How the sight 
of it must flash comfort across the deep, cheering the 
sailor in time of trouble, perhaps, when he is battling 
against wind and wave. The white cliff will be seen 
afar, and the Cross must seem to stretch forth arms 
of blessing, sending the message far and wide: ‘ Fear 
not, for I have redeemed thee — thou art mine ! ’ ” 

“But Lily, not everybody shares your feeling; this 
Cross, as you call it, to most sailors will be a mere 
flagstaff.” 

“Perhaps so,” she said; “but Christian people are 
alike in deepest feeling nevertheless.” 


FROM A LOST SOUL 315 

She paused, and then continued, closing her hands 
on my arm unconsciously: 

“ For my own part, I have often felt the power of 
the Cross, young as I am. I love to think of it as a 
symbol. Sometimes, when I am troubled, I need but 
call the thought of it to mind, and quiet is restored. 

“ Can your heart ever be troubled, Lily?” 

“Yes, often. It is true I have everything to make 
me happy, but unrest often fills my soul. I suppose it 
must be so while we are in this life.” 

She was right: the heart of man will be battling 
for deepest rest to the last. 

“ But I have what is better than the Cross to help 
me,” Lily continued, rising and leaning against it — 
“ His own dear name. Whatever trouble may come 
to me, I need but whisper that name, and peace straight- 
way flows down upon me. Llis own peace, so full of 
healing : surely it is blessed to call on Him in all things ! 
Have you tried it, Philip? Oh, do; it is so easy to turn 
to Him with all our griefs and failings. It needs but a 
word, a clinging to His name, and the blessing is given. 
I know it. I have found it so.” 

No, I could not say I had tried; at least never since 
I was wont to pray by Aunt Betty’s knee. But . . . 

what was that moving within, stirring my deepest soul ? 
. . . Yes . . . I would listen, I would follow 

and try. 

The Good Shepherd standing at the door — it was 
not His fault that salvation was offered in vain. I 
heard Him knocking even then, and His fear fell upon 
me. “ Is it Thou, Lord? ” I cried tremblingly, “ alas, 
I am not ready; I will let Thee in when the place is 
prepared ! ” And feebly I set about sweeping and 
garnishing it, keeping Him waiting till it was too late. 


LETTER XXVIL 


My letters are becoming few and far between. I dread 
the effort more and more, though I feel urged to write. 
I yield, but only to be seized with an indescribable re- 
luctance, and I drop the pen in the midst of a sentence 
perhaps. 

This reminds me of Aunt Betty’s letters luckily. 
That will help me to catch a thread, for I assure you 
the very sight of ink is sickening to me. But the mem- 
ory of Aunt Betty is like a refreshing breeze. 

Now Aunt Betty’s letters were a very image of her- 
self — bubbling over, candid, and sometimes queer, 
without the faintest pretense at elaboration. She had 
no time for thought or composition, she said; and she 
wrote none but so-called confidential letters. But the 
fact was that her missives sometimes would produce 
the strangest confusion. 

I remember her coming flying into my mother’s 
room one day with a letter in her hand. 

“ She must be stark staring mad ! ” she cried ex- 
citedly. “What am I to do with Jemima’s paupers? 
Was there ever such a misunderstanding?” 

We tried to calm her, and begged for an explana- 
tion. I was a half-grown lad at the time. Auntie 
plunged into the subject. 

“ There was a poor sick woman with a handful of 
children whom I assisted in supporting, while the hus- 
band served his term for housebreaking. Now, Jemi- 
ma wrote to me the other day that the convict had re- 
turned — that tlie wife had died, leaving him as helpless 
316 


FROM A LOST SOUL 317 

as any of his babes. Would I suggest what could 
be done? 

“ I did the nearest thing at hand, despatching some 
money and begging her to send particulars as to age, 
sex, and the rest of it; I would try and find homes for 
them.” 

“The sex of the husband, auntie?” I interposed 
roguishly. 

“ Don’t interrupt me with your nonsense, Philip. 
It is too much of a mess, and I am sure a great trou- 
ble to dispose of. Can you imagine that stupid Jemi- 
ma sending me the whole lot of them bodily? There 
they are in the housekeeper’s room, eight blessed 
souls, imagining I have homes for them in my pocket. 
That hulking convict, above all things smelling horri- 
bly of tobacco. What am I to do? ” 

“ Perhaps you meant to write for particulars, and 
wrote for the family instead ! ” I suggested. 

“How can you be so stupid, Philip? I am sure 
my letters are as plain as ink; no child could mistake 
their meaning. Jemima must have lost her head! ” 

The convict and his offspring, meanwhile, were 
solacing themselves in the housekeeper’s room, over- 
flowing with thanks, and nothing seemed further 
from their minds than the idea of ever leaving again. 
Aunt Betty meantime running to and fro asking dis- 
tractedly — “What should she do with them?” 

However, she found my father coming to the rescue,-, 
and the misunderstanding proved prolific of blessing, 
inasmuch as the former housebreaker was before long 
started in a course of honesty, and his flock of children 
cared for. 

You have followed me so far, and I have told you 
that evil desires, vainly seeking to be gratified, are an 


A MESSAGE 


318 

ever-burning fire here; but to what extent this is true 
you can scarcely conceive, not knowing how they are 
inflamed. It is imagination of course to which that 
horrible office pertains. Even on earth imagination 
may gain a dangerous ascendency; but in hell it wields 
a terrible sway. It becomes a monster of tyranny here, 
the soul being its helpless prey. 

Nothing more easy after all than to clothe gloating 
fancy with a certain amount of reality; bring the con- 
scious will to bear, and you have your desire — after 
a fashion — the table to glut at, the wine, and the dice. 
Hell is full of such things. But all is worse than illu- 
sion. Oh, let me be silent ! It is adding mockery to 
torture. You understand me, I think. The crime of 
Ixion and the fiery wheel of his agony form together 
a true symbol of the condition of multitudes of the 
lost. 

Can you doubt that I am referring to my own ex- 
perience? Have I not told you that I was a man of 
sensual bent, and a slave to passion? Do you im- 
agine that either is mortified here? Ah, let me re- 
frain ! 

I am no better than others here, except, perhaps, 
that at times I am overwhelmed with shame. How is 
it possible for one who loved Lily — who was loved 
by her — to sink so low ! 

Yet there is one difference marking me out from at 
least some others. Whenever the pure exalted image 
of Lily rises on my soul, all evil passions are assuaged ; 
the wild conflagration ceases, and once again I seem 
a human soul. . . . 

“ I am so tired, Philip,” she said, softly. And forth- 
with I stopped the mule that carried her. As a tender 
mother her ailing child, I lifted her from the saddle. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 319 

depositing her gently on the mossy ground. We were 
near a bridge leading over Brook Cedron. 

“ So tired.” Oh, the sad sad story contained in these 
words! But seventeen, and always tired! I had 
closed my heart to the painful testimony; I would not 
believe that so young a life might be taken. Yet I 
could not drive anxiety away entirely; again and again 
I was forced to face the dread reality. “ Life will 
probably ebb away in hemorrhage,” an English physi- 
cian at Jaffa had said. “ Be very careful; any exertion 
or emotional excitement may bring it on.” 

And I was careful, keeping her as the apple of my 
eye. That journey through the Holy Land, under- 
taken at her own urgent entreaty, was but one contin- 
uous attempt to make her happy. She was the center 
of a circle of love into which nothing harmful was al- 
lowed to enter. That I served her was natural. But 
Turks and Bedouins even looked upon her with wor- 
shipping awe. Ah ! deathless time, love and pain 
abounding ! 

Wherever we went, she found holy memories of Him 
to whom her heart had been given ; He speaking to her 
through the Bible she loved. Nay, it was He that ac- 
companied her from place to place. Her happiness was 
supreme. “ I seem to be in heaven already,” she would 
say to me. To her the sun was rising and setting as 
in a dream, transfiguring all earthly things. The fleet- 
ing hours to her were as moments anticipating eternity. 

It came, the dreaded spectre, like a thunderbolt from 
a cloudless sky — not carrying her off, but leaving me 
hopeless with fear. 

She recovered a little, but what prospect was there 
of returning health? Her mind was easy, but anxiety 
with me was great. As a drooping lily she was, fair 


320 A MESSAGE 

still and fragrant, holding her cup prayerfully while 
she was able, but fast closing her petals in the faintness 
of death. “Lily is tired,” — the Heavenly Gardener 
was transplanting her to His Paradise above. 

We were halting by the royal brook — Lily remem- 
bering David and a greater King that passed there. 
The scenery is present with me even now — every stone, 
every shrub of that hallowed spot. 

Moriah was in view, where Solomon’s temple once 
stood, and that other temple built by Herod, where 
Omar’s mosque now lifts her minarets proudly. To 
our right lay the valley of Jehoshaphat, deep and nar- 
row, a cleft between towering mountains, the rocks on 
the one side being fretted with innumerable caves, the 
sepulchres of old, of kings and prophets. On the 
Mount of Corruption to our left a poverty-stricken Jew- 
ish village clings to the steep incline. At our feet was 
the stony bed of Cedron, panting for its dried-up 
waters; the Mount of Olives was rising beyond, a suc- 
cession of gentle curves, leading onward to Gethsemane. 
A group of ancient olive trees marks that sacred spot. 
The setting sun was casting deep shadows, broken by 
streaks of dazzling light, across the valley, the top of 
Olivet only glowing with a subdued radiance that was 
grateful to the eye. 

The place where we rested was in the shade entirely. 
A gentle breeze, but cool and refreshing, was playing 
about us. Lily sat still with folded hands, looking list- 
less; she was tired — tired to death perhaps. Her 
eyes closed. Oh how white she looked ! and pure as a 
dying Madonna. But more alarming than her pallor 
were those sudden flushes overspreading her features, 
leaving her more white than before. 

The mule and his attendant had composed themselves 



Ill 




WHAT ARE YOU THINKING OF 



i 




FROM A LOST SOUL 323 

to sleep at a little distance. “Happy boy!” I said, 
looking at him, adding involuntarily, “ Happy ani- 
mal! ” The Turkish escort engaged for our safety lay 
smoking the inevitable hookah, in blissful ignorance 
apparently of landscape beauty or human grief. 

Silence was becoming oppressive. My Lily was not 
asleep, though her eyes were closed, and I turned to 
her gently with a question: “What are you thinking 
of?’’ 

“ My sins,” she said, looking at me. 

“ Your sins! ” I echoed, refraining from what I was 
going to add, lest I should pain her. . . . “ O 

Lily, my pious child, they can neither be grievous nor 
many.” 

“Yes, Philip!” she said eagerly; “there is no one 
good save He. We have all come short of the glory, 
but God only knows how much we have sinned.” 

“ But what makes you think of sin just now? ” She 
looked up surprised. The gift was hers at any time 
to open my eyes. I knew what she meant. My gaze 
went abroad over the peaceful expanse. Truly what 
spot could be more fitted to convince man of his own 
worthlessness? I bowed my head in shame. 

“ Dear friend,” she continued, tremulous with emo- 
tion, “ at this very moment I feel reproved; even here 
wrong thoughts will assail the heart. A sudden long- 
ing had come to me that I might be spared a little 
longer, but I forgot to add, ‘ Thy will be done ! ’ You 
see that was wTong, for we ought to yield ourselves to 
Him entirely, believing that our Father knows best, 
else we cannot be His children.” 

An indescribably bitter feeling of anger and self-will 
rose in my heart; what knew I of giving up the will for 
the gain of sonship? My eye involuntarily sought the 


A MESSAGE 


324 

Mussulman, and the evil spirit said: “Better be a 
Turk' outright ! ” But chastening sorrow was at hand, 
and I said gently: 

“ Surely you may live; do not sadden your heart with 
such thoughts. O Lily, my good little sister, my own, 
think of the love that would keep you here ! ” 

“ I do,” she said, with a smile like sunbeams break- 
ing through clouds, “ love here is precious, but a better 
love awaits me beyond.” 

Another pause, but I would not — I could not be si- 
lent, and I continued: 

“ The desire to live cannot be wrong, sweetest Lily. 
Let it be very present with you, and you will see it ful- 
filled. God Himself has planted the love of life in 
our hearts; it cannot be sinful, then, to cling to it. 
Do not wrong yourself; there never was a less self- 
willed being than you, so unselfish and good.” 

“ So the brother’s love would think,” she said, look- 
ing at me tenderly; “ but you are right in this; my feel- 
ings were not selfish though self-willed. It is not for 
my own sake I would wish to live — I was thinking of 
others. Philip, darling, can you understand that I 
would like to live for your sake? I know you will 
miss me more than any — you, my one, my truest 
friend ! ” 

Had I been alone with her I would have sunk at her 
feet in a transport of worship; as it was I could but 
stammer: “ Lily, I shall die if you leave me ! ” 

Again we spoke not. But silence now was sweet- 
ened. I had seen heaven opened. 

Her face was veiled in solemn seriousness. I knew 
she was battling it out in her soul. But even the 
trouble of conflict could not cloud her trust in God. 
She saw the palm of victory, reaching forth her hand 


FROM A LOST SOUL 325 

to seize it, for I heard her murmur: “ Thy will, Lord, 
not mine ! ” 

Yet the crown was not fully hers at that moment, it 
seemed; she rose suddenly, saying with quivering lips: 
“ It must be sin which prevents the full gift of peace. 
Surely it is wrong to cling to life! . . . But I am 

ready to go . . . and I feel stronger now. Let 

us move on.” 

I took hold of her hand with a gentle pressure, say- 
ing : — I know not how I could frame such words ! — 
“ Lily, my own, it is not the world you feel bound to 
— and surely such love as yours is far from sin 1 How 
can you feel guilty and troubled? ” 

She looked at me, with a heavenly light gleaming 
in her eyes. I felt it at the time, but understood not 
such beauty, not knowing the victory it promised. 

“ I do feel sinful, but not troubled,” she said, “ for 
I can trust Him, and He knows it. . . . Look, 

Philip,” she continued, turning to the dried-up brook, 
“can you count these pebbles, great and small? In- 
numerable as they, are the sins of the world. But the 
foot of Him has passed here when He sorrowed even 
unto death. The sins of all were laid upon Him — 
mine too. He has taken them away; they cannot trou- 
ble me ! ” 

We went on beyond Cedron, ascending Olivet, and 
reaching Gethsernane, The garden is enclosed with a 
low stone wall, and contains eight olive trees of great 
antiquity. The spot where Judas betrayed his Lord 
with a kiss is fenced in separately, and even the Turks 
deem it accursed. We stopped beneath those trees, 
the same, no doubt, which saw the Saviour wrestle in 
awful agony when He drank the cup that men might 
go free. 


A MESSAGE 


326 

Lily was kneeling in earnest devotion, praying for 
submission, and, I doubt not, praying for me. Peace 
was given her there and then, shining like a halo from* 
her brow as she rose — “ Thy will be done ! ” 

But my soul was barren of prayer. I felt ready to 
curse my weakness which had agreed to this pilgrimage 
through the Holy Land. I longed for our far-off 
home; life there, I imagined, might have smiled upon 
us, whereas death stared me in the face at every turn 
on the sacred soil. 

We took the shorter way back, passing St. Stephen’s 
Gate, and following the Via Dolorosa through the 
town. That road is full of holiest reminiscences; the 
prsetorium where the crown of thorns was platted and 
the Holy One mocked by sinful men — the “ Ecce 
Homo ” arch, where Pilate pointed to the Saviour say- 
ing, “ Behold the man ! ” — the spot where Mary, meet- 
ing her divine Son as He carried the Cross, fainted for 
grief — and that other spot where the Lord, turning 
to the wailing women that followed Him, said: 
“ Daughters of Jerusalem, weep not for me, but weep 
for yourselves and for your children ! ” — and lastly, 
the place where the saintly Veronica wiped His holy 
forehead with her veil. Here we turned aside; but the 
road leads on to Calvary. 

This then was the Via Dolorosa ! A road of sor- 
rows for me as well. But not of Him I thought who 
once went this way as the Lamb to be slain. I grieved 
for myself only, and not a thought of comfort I found 
on that road. How, then, should I be comforted here? 

It seems strange that I never thought of visiting the 
so-called city of the Jews, which is one of the greatest 
sights in hell. It is not spoken of as Jerusalem here; 


FROM A LOST SOUL 327 

but I doubt not it is the actual city which bore that 
name on earth. At any rate, I can never think of it 
without straightway calling to mind the city I knew. 

A burning desire laid hold of me suddenly to go to 
Jerusalem. What though it was a town of sorrows to 
me, I had Lily there. It seems in my power once again 
to see the places I visited with her; to traverse the 
narrow valley of Jehoshaphat; to rest by the bridge 
leading over Cedron; to follow the road of sorrows 
from Gabbatha to Golgotha; and, if so minded, to lay 
me down by the way at the rich man’s gate — another 
Lazarus. 

And yet if that city be Jerusalem in truth, it must 
be a city ruined and undone. There must be a great 
difference between Jerusalem of old and Jerusalem after 
its fall. But what is that to me? Whatever the city 
may have come to here, it cannot be so utterly changed 
that I shall not recognize the places I once saw with 
Lily by my side. 

I cannot rest; and though light be fast decreasing, 
I am urged to go. What though it be but vain imag- 
inings which drive me thither, there is a miserable satis- 
faction in obeying the behest. 

But let me make inquiries first concerning that stran- 
gest of cities. Far away though it be, surely there are 
people here who can tell me something about it ! 


LETTER XXVIII. 


Far away, and separated from the continent of hell 
by an immeasurable waste, lies the great city of the 
Jews — a world apart. And there, in perpetual cycles, 
the dread history repeats itself, from the catastrophe 
of Golgotha to the final destruction. Upon the sack- 
ing of Jerusalem the whole is engulfed in darkness; 
but daylight reappearing, the wheel of history has run 
back, once more to begin the awful period. 

Any one entering the city as the night is dispelled 
finds the Jewish people overwhelmed with horror at the 
recent deed. The awful words keep sounding about 
them : “ His blood be on us and on our children ! ” 
They seem aware that a terrible thing has been done 
— that a terrible retribution is at hand. Jerusalem 
trembles. Those who have taken part in bringing 
about that most fearful of crimes ever perpetrated by 
man, but whose consciences are not seared entirely, 
raise the question whether, after all. He was the Son 
of God whom they crucified; they smite upon their 
breast and rend their garments. 

Even the chief priests and elders, hardened though 
they be, are disturbed. But they flatter themselves with 
the consolation that the sepulchre is made sure. As the 
great Sabbath breaks, behold them going forth to the 
garden with Caiaphas at their head. Pale are their 
faces and bloodshot their eyes; they grind their teeth, 
but Satan upholds them ! The three crosses from Gol- 
gotha look down upon them; but not one of those men 
dares lift an eye to the place where they hanged Him 
328 


FROM A LOST SOUL 329 

on the tree. Where is their priestly dignity? See how 
they snatch up their long clothing and hasten apace to 
the tomb ! 

Having reached it they seem satisfied: it is all as 
it should be. The watch is there, the seal untouched, 
and the stone in its place. 

The great Sabbath has come. But never was there 
less of Sabbath joy in Jerusalem. A cloud is upon the 
people; they all wish the festal time were past. Their 
thoughts roam away from symbolic action. The un- 
leavened bread has lost its sweetness; the blood of the 
paschal lamb is clotted in their hands as the endeavor 
to put it upon the lintel of their houses. The angel of 
death does not pass by; he is among them,; they know 
it in their hearts. 

But see, they shake off the stupor. As a stroke of 
lightning the news has fallen upon them that the Cru- 
cified One has risen. The words of life sound as a 
death-knell in their ears. But is it true? Corrobora- 
tive evidence is loud on all sides; there is no gainsaying 
the wondrous event. They hasten towards the sep- 
ulchre. It is empty, and the stone rolled from the 
door. 

Pilate is one of the very first to whom the news 
is taken. His evil conscience has told him to expect 
the worst; and lo, the worst has happened! There is 
a God to raise the righteous, even from the grave, and 
to destroy the workers of iniquity. Pilate trembles 
at every sound; each moment, he thinks, must bring 
the avenger to his door. He looks for his wife, the 
abject coward, and hears her cry: “My dream. — O 
my dream ! Alas, that thou deliveredst this Just One 
into their hands ! ” 

But the high priests and elders are not so easily 
20 


330 'A MESSAGE 

daunted. They quickly spread the tale that the body 
of the Nazarene had been stolen away by His dis- 
ciples, who invented, they said, the story of His resur- 
rection. They bribed the watchmen to accuse them- 
selves before Pilate of having slept at their post; and 
the cowardly governor is glad to accept the lie, thrust- 
ing the unhappy men into prison to ease his mind. 

But the marvelous account is not so easily suppressed. 
Again and again it is said, the Son of Man is risen 
indeed, and has been seen by many! And the chief 
priests know not how to help themselves; the high coun- 
cil forbids the very mention of Him who was crucified. 

By degrees the terror lessens; life in the city runs 
its wonted course. Like startled sheep the people fol- 
low their accustomed leaders, and these fail not to 
apply the balm of self-righteousness to every wound. 
Hypocrisy flourishes yielding the fruits of death. The 
whited sepulchres spread the corruption hidden within, 
and soon the whole body of the people has sickened 
with uncleanness. It is fast becoming a dead carcass, 
and the eagles, the worms, will have it for their prey. 

Pilate has disappeared. There have been other gov- 
ernors after him, more capable of ruling than he. And 
the people find it out to their hurt. They are a butt 
to cruelty and derision, till they can no longer bear it. 
The flames of insurrection shoot aloft, the heated pas- 
sions breaking loose; but Jerusalem’s worst enemy is 
within her own walls — the fury of discord. Wildly 
the people rave against each other; no crime so hideous 
but it is committed against very brothers. Jerusalem’s 
last hour is at hand. The enemy storms her walls, 
breathing vengeance and destruction ; the end has come 
of trouble as of hatred — an awful end. The horrors 
of that siege have never been equalled. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 331 

A night of death envelops the scene; the history Is 
played out, to begin again with each recurring dawn. 

The day was far advanced when I entered the city. 
The final catastrophe was at hand. The enmity within 
had reached Its height; hopeless discord was rampant. 
Hypocrisy and hatred against the common enemy with- 
out were the only bonds uniting the seething mass. 
Deceit, treachery, unchaste living, perjury, murder, and 
all manner of sorcery, showed their unblushing front. 
And yet to outward appearance It continued the proud 
city of David. Gloriously as ever the holy hill of Zion 
lifted her battlements, and on Moriah rose the temple 
in splendor unsurpassed. Piety In long garments stood 
about the streets, making prayers for a pretense ; crowds 
of people passed to and fro from the synagogues;. 
Devoutness In fact made Itself conspiclous everywhere. 
Among the pious Inscriptions adorning the dwellings 
by way of proving the peculiar sanctity of their In- 
habitants, I was stimck with one especially, which oc- 
curred far oftener than any other, so that I needs must 
take It as significant — Godliness is gain! It se'emed. 
Indeed, as If the people were running after both these 
jointly, looking upon godliness as a means, upon gain 
as the coveted result, and deeming no cunning too great 
to obtain It. 

My heart quaked as I stole through the crowded 
streets. This, then, was Jerusalem ! Oh how different 
from the city I had known, and yet how like ! It was 
the same old Jerusalem of the time when the Saviour 
went about In it teaching and healing. The Saviour 
— ay, at every step the thought of Him rose to my 
mind, to the forgetting even of Lily. Here surely 
there must be men who can tell of Him. But first of 
all I would follow that road from Gabbatha to Gol- 


332 A MESSAGE 

gotha — alas, with other feelings than might have been 
possible on earth ! I needed a guide, and stopped the 
first Jew I met on the way. But he broke from me 
gruffly with a sneer, so did another, and yet another. 
And presently I was buffeted on even mentioning the 
Via Dolorosa. I suppose they took it for Latin and 
believed me to be a Roman. At first I saw in their 
rudeness merely their probable dislike to me as a 
stranger; before long, however, I could not but accept 
the fact that in all that city no one could be found who 
had any knowledge concerning the Son of Mary. He 
was forgotten — forgotten entirely. False prophets 
had risen in His stead, to whom they^had listened. 

There was nothing left for me but to try and find 
the way unaided. 

I turned away in the direction of Brook Cedron, 
finding the very place by the bridge where once I rested 
with Lily. On that spot I would rest me now — alas, 
rest I could not ; I only stopped ! 

There I sat, silent and alone, but content was far 
away. Memories of Lily were neither more vivid nor 
more real; longing only was increased tenfold. I had 
been anxious to revisit the holy scenes, and found them 
fraught with disappointment. But since existence to 
me was one great disillusion, what mattered it! Jeru- 
salem was but a grave, forsaken of the Spirit, estranged 
from God, a prey to hatred, a dead body given over 
to the undying worm. The souls peopling it were the 
ghosts of an awful past, living in the destruction they 
had called down. What could I have found there to 
yield me even a shadow of content? I had come 
thither to find myself in a like damnation. Fool that 
I was to expect it otherwise ! But we never learn by 
experience ; we did not on earth — we cannot in hell 1 


FROM A LOST SOUL 333 

Faint at heart, I grovelled my way back to the city, 
and came upon scenes of excitement. A new governor 
had arrived, the last but one appointed by Rome, and 
was making a splendid entry. 

I was anxious to see something of one of the most 
remarkable cities in hell, the city of Politicians, called 
also the town of Injustice. Thither I moved. 

On the road I met the strangest procession — a most 
extraordinary machine being wheeled along by a rabble 
conspicious for scarlet caps, and howling frightfully. 
On the top of the structure I beheld, sitting as on a 
throne a man wearing the most elegant apparel of 
Paris fashion and last century style. The hair slightly 
powdered and carefully arranged, the necktie scrupu- 
lously white and embroidered, the velvet coat both 
costly and genteel, the cuffs of lace setting off hands 
delicately shaped like a woman’s, the silken hose, the 
shoes trim with bow and buckle, — would one not take 
such outward signs as the index of a disposition fastidi- 
ously refined ? But no, he is satiated with blood, worse 
than Nero himself, his triumphal car on the present 
occasion being an ambulant guillotine. 

Have you recognized him? 

Still thirsting for blood, this graceful image of gen- 
tility; but hell yields nothing for the quenching of 
thirst, not even blood. He is always looking at peo- 
ple’s necks, as shown by his very compliments, such as 
they are. “ Sir,” he says, “ your neck is very line. 
Madam, allow me to congratulate you upon a lovely 
throat! ” Followed by his creatures, a very hangman’s 
company, he likes to ride abroad among the people, 
upon whom he looks as a kind of raw material for his 
philanthropic experiments. But the common folk make 


A MESSAGE 


334 

faces at him, calling him a fool possessed of a harmless 
mania. No one is afraid of him now, for power over 
necks is not given him here; the unsatisfied craving 
is his punishment also. Still he has a circle of friends 
and followers who share his notions with regard to the 
general rottenness of society and the need of sanguinary 
revolution. They are sorry for his disappointment, 
and whenever he has fixed upon a place for his beloved 
guillotine, they very kindly offer him their necks for 
decapitation; the procedure, mind you, being without 
hurt or harm to themselves, — the sort of thing which 
used to be done in Astley’s theater. But their good- 
natured make-believe cannot satisfy him, simply be- 
cause there is no shedding of blood. 

It was a long journey I had undertaken, and I passed 
by a town looking a very necropolis. Dark and mute 
it rose upon a dismal flat. No window, no door, 
showed life within; not a sound was heard, and though 
gates stood open not a soul came forth. Once, twice 
I walked around, — not a living creature in sight. I 
kept wondering, till a stray ghost explained to me the 
strange appearance. It was the tovm of the Inquisi- 
tion, he said; adding that not long since a powerful 
king of Spain, with unheard-of splendor and a great 
retinue, had made his entry into that town. 

“Shall I, or shall I not?” 

I came to the conclusion that where his Catholic 
Majesty had gone I might venture. 

But at the gate I came upon a placard sufficiently 
startling. Thus it ran : — 

“ AUTODAF^ OF PECULIAR INTEREST! 

“ Whereas his most Catholic Majesty, the powerful 
protector of the Holy Inquisition, has graciously prom- 


FROM A LOST SOUL 335 

ised to be burnt alive, after most royal and exquisite 
torture; and whereas six hundred heretics will wait, on 
his Majesty at the stake: the sublime spectacle of their 
witnessing his passing to the nether fire is herewith 
announced, the setting in scene being strictly in keeping 
with hell.” 

A strange announcement to be sure ! But no doubt 
he had come to his own place, that much-lamented king 
of Spain, and the towm was even now preparing to 
greet him right royally. 

Should I indeed go in? I hesitated. Still I doubted 
not that even the worst in that city, might be borne; 
and, on the other hand, that placard exercised a kind 
of demoniac influence over my imagination. I must 
see that sight ! 

This, then, was the second “ holy ” city I had the 
honor of visiting, and in truth there is a peculiar like- 
ness between them. What the City of Destruction is 
to the Jewish people, the town of Inquisition may be 
said to be to Christendom. 

A shudder went through me as I entered. Auto- 
matically the gates swung on their hinges, closing with 
an ominous shriek. Those gates, strange to say, stand 
open like a yawning grave to him who approaches, 
falling to behind him who has gone in. There I was 
in the town of crooked streets and death-breathing at- 
mosphere. The high houses have the fewest of win- 
dows, and those are provided with iron bars, prison- 
like. Horror seemed to dwell within. Mysterious 
figures went gliding through the gloomy thoroughfares, 
wrapped in long cowls, and hoods over their heads, 
with two round staring holes for the eyes. Are they 
dead men risen from their graves ? And here and there 


336 A MESSAGE 

a procession meets me, either of dismal penitence, of- 
fering the most horrible examples of fanatical self- 
torture, or of thanksgiving, more dismal still, accom- 
panying condemned sufferers to the scene of their pub- 
lic agony. Pomp and vanity here also, forsooth ! But 
the only thing which brings life into the stagnation of 
that city is an autodafe. 

The inhabitants one and all are people who at one 
time or another were servants of the Inquisition. Oth- 
ers may enter if they are so minded, I myself being 
one of the few foolhardy who did so. 

This city of the Inquisition is as a grave enclosing 
a terrible secret. • For no one knows who, in accord- 
ance with the verdict of an unknown tribunal, shall be 
the next to be dragged to most horrible torture. 
No one is safe, not even those who hold high position 
in the mysterious community — possibly the most zeal- 
ous votaries of a fanatical church. The very members 
of the secret tribunal are not safe ! — for he who lately 
sentenced his neighbor to cruel and exquisite torture 
may be the very one to suffer next. Their fate lays 
hold of them secretly and swiftly — fate? nay, but a 
just retribution. They are dragged from their hiding- 
places and brought to the bar. They shall give an ac- 
count of their faith. They are utterly unable; no one 
can do so in hell. They are judged accordingly; but, 
be it noticed, their very judges are equally unable to 
confess their faith. 

And now for torture! Whatever of horror, of 
cruelty, has been invented on behalf of the Inquisition, 
is all known here and applied to the fullest extent. 
The victims are disembodied spirits: true, but their 
imagination is keenly alive to the torment. On earth 
they raved against hapless humanity; now they rave 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


337 

against one another, each being judge and victim in 
turn. They wind up with the stake. But although 
the fire has no flame, and although the miserable 
wretches are unable to burn, they none the less suffer 
In the spirit the excruciating agony of dying on a slowly 
consuming pyre. 

The end of all is horror unspeakable. Souls do not 
live here; they tremble and quake. Even I shared in 
the common sensation, although I tried to console my- 
self that in such respect, at any rate, I was guiltless, 
having never joined, directly or indirectly, in religious 
persecution. But no matter — since I was there, I 
seemed in a like damnation. 

How frightful was the silence — the lull before an 
awful storm ! For the city was preparing for the 
climax of her existence. It was plainly evident that 
the autodafe was about to take place. Muffled figures 
kept gliding from the houses, moving away in a self- 
same direction. I need but follow them to reach the 
scene. But as my soul called up the picture of what 
was to be acted by the most Catholic king amid six 
hundred heretics, a horror fell upon me. I could not 
— I dared not — witness the spectacle. I turned and 
fled as if death in the shape of the holy Hermandad it- 
self were at my heels. Happily I escaped from the 
town, the cold drops on my forehead, my knees shaking 
with anguish. I fell in a swoon as soon as the terrible 
gate closed behind me. 


LETTER XXIX. 


Gigantic structures in earth’s parlance may mean the 
Pyramids, or the great works of Babylon and Nineveh, 
or some Chinese wall of later date. I have not seen 
any of these wonders, or their ruins either, but I ven- 
ture to assert that their importance dwindles into noth- 
ing by the side of the growing edifice called the city of 
Politicians here. And that fabric is raised in a single 
day, meaning the space between one hell night and 
another. I call it a day; it may be months, years — 
I know not. “ City,” let me tell you, is an inappro- 
priate term, since, although a dwelling-place of many, 
it is but a single mass, ever added to, but never finished. 
Between one darkness and another, it reaches colossal 
dimensions, to break down at last in a heap of shape- 
less ruin. Night puts a stop to the work, which is 
begun afresh with every succeeding dawn; yet not quite 
afresh, the foundations being the same once for all. 
Indeed it is they which cause the ever-recurring down- 
fall; for, extensive as they are, covering an area of un- 
limited vastness, they are hopelessly rotten. Who 
laid them is a mystery; if one may guess, it must have 
been Satan himself. But however that may be, those 
foundations have survived through ages of superstruc- 
ture and ruin. There are passages through them in all 
directions, and holes where the workers dwell — some- 
thing like the catacombs. 

The “ city ” then rises on this base. All the states- 
men in hell have duty here as master-builders, and of 
workmen there is no lack; millions there are, — hell 

338 


FROM A LOST SOUL 339 

continually disgorging them on this spot, and like bees 
they bring their building materials with them, working 
together in virtue of a common instinct like those in- 
sects. 

You have heard it said of this man or of that, that 
his conscience is turned to a stone. Now this is no 
mere figure of speech; such sayings embody an awful 
truth. It is a terrible thing, my friend, to have a stone 
where the conscience ought to be ! Every deceitful 
act, every deed of injustice or want of mercy, helps to 
petrify your conscience. And some people’s hearts are 
so deadened that every righteous feeling has been dis- 
placed by a Stone of that kind. No one is free from 
these dead weights, — no one who comes hither at 
least, — and some drag such loads about with them, 
that the marvel is they continue alive. Now this city 
is built of such stones. Some souls there are whose one 
occupation it is to free their hearts of the petrifying 
load. Free? but it is hopeless trying; and though 
stones upon stones be added to the rising structure, the 
stony heart cannot here be changed. One finds this out 
by experience only; but some there are, so loaded with 
injustice, and so anxious to get rid of it, that no ex- 
perience will convince them. 

The head and corner-stones are furnished by the 
master-builders, the former experts in statesmanship. 
It is simply astounding to behold the overwhelming 
weights produced by men of their antecedents. In- 
deed, one requires the insight obtained here in order 
to form an idea as to the extent of treachery, injustice, 
and subtle craft they were capable of in the days of 
their earthly life. Among them are to be found the 
greatest wrongdoers the world ever produced. No one 
has a more unlimited scope for evil than statesmen, 


A MESSAGE 


340 

not excepting kings; and their responsibility is awful. 
For a man might be born heir to some crown and could 
not help it; but no man can be a statesman without of 
his own free will undertaking a ruler’s duties. They 
knew what they engaged in and have no excuse. The 
w^elfare of millions was in their hand — the power of 
blessing or cursing; and how did they use it? Look 
at history — nay, examine the present time. They 
seem to believe, these men, that in the interest of poli- 
tics, as they call it, any amount of evildoing will pass. 
Justice? — it is an empty sound. The welfare of na- 
tions? — the power of the state is more than that. 
They believe themselves exempt from all laws, moral 
or divine, — imagining God, if He judges them at all, 
will judge them according to some special standard of 
right and wrong. Treacherous dealing, tyranny, and 
armed force were their chief ideas of governing, no 
matter how many unknown subjects might suffer cruel 
hardship. And behold, the world’s perversity judges 
them by the glittering tinsel of success, calling him 
greatest who out-manoeuvres all others in perfidity — 
diplomacy is the current expression; but things are 
called by their true name here. It is quite apparent 
in hell that some of the greatest crimes earth ever wit- 
nessed were committed in behalf of the so-called higher 
arts of diplomacy, and that some of the greatest de- 
linquents are to be found among the starred and gar- 
tered office-bearers who are the right hand of kings. 

But the chief duty of these master-builders consists 
in seeing the profusion of material, their own and that 
of others, properly disposed. This offers real diffi- 
culty; for each of these ex-statesmen very naturally 
has his own plan to go by. No two of them ever 
agree, even though they should find themselves sta- 


FROM A LOST SOUL 341 

tioned side by side. But sometimes they are separated, 
say a hundred miles from one another. Imagine, then, 
the circumference of the city, and try to imagine these 
statesmen — one here, one there — building away, 
heedless of each other. This is the reason why the 
state is never accomplished. I say “ state,” for the 
latent idea is to form a state, and when it is finished to 
choose a king. There are numbers of landless sover- 
eigns loafing about the outskirts of the city, dreadfully 
anxious to be chosen. I have spoken of those miserable 
crown-bearers in a former letter. 

Our statesmen are sufficiently aware of the difficulty 
of their undertaking; they are for ever sending de- 
spatches in all directions, now cajoling, now threaten- 
ing, as they hope to gain their end. And their am- 
bassadors creep about from one court — I mean build- 
ing-station — to another; but no amount of diplomatic 
perfidity avails, and nothing remains but to call a con- 
gress at last. But since there is no neutral ground in 
all the city itself, they fix upon a certain mud island 
in the black river which laves the base of this building 
ground. In order to gain that island they have no 
choice but to try the experiment of swimming. Now 
one would imagine our noble diplomatists to be very 
loth to let the filthy water touch their august persons. 
But far from it. They like it! (You remember that 
the black river is fed by all the refuse of injustice and 
falsehood oozing down from the world.) It is quite 
a sight, I assure you, to see them sprawling jn the hor- 
rible water. They have reached their own element, it 
is plain; and like a set of schoolboys in a mill pond, 
they flounder about quite lustily. 

No sooner are they landed, however, than behold 
our dignified statesmen! The congress is inaugurated 


342 A MESSAGE 

with due solemnity, each plenipotentiary falling into 
his place with singular adroitness, and agreeing with 
peculiar suavity that a com.mon plan of action must be 
arrived at. But there unanimity stops. Innumerable 
proposals are made and rejected, mutual jealousy ren- 
dering concord impossible. One motion presently meets 
with acceptance: let each representative try and work 
out his part towards the general aim. Great hopes are 
aired, and the result is truly ridiculous. The completed 
scheme proves the most deplorable farrago; but no one 
is prepared to give up his individual position, and the 
end is confusion. Vainly the most impressive speeches 
are delivered about the incomparable benefits of simple 
honesty in politics; about the infernal balance of power, 
without which the greatest revolutions and most hope- 
less complications are to be dreaded; about the eternal 
laws of the nature of things; about the duties of politics 
in a beneficent sense, and the moral power of the rul- 
ing creed in modern times, which brands with infamy 
mere brutal force; about the high state of culture ar- 
rived at in this nineteenth century, which alone ought 
to govern all social questions; about principles of action 
which should not be set aside even in hell ; about sacred 
rights which must be upheld at any sacrifice. In short, 
no parliament on earth could develop greater bombast 
than a meeting of ex-politicians here. But result there 
is none, and nothing remains but to raise the congress. 

Before separating, however, there is the usual ex- 
change of compliments — a profusion of gratitude for 
mutual helpfulness and invaluable assistance in unrav- 
eling difficult points. The congress, in fact, is pro- 
nounced a success ; the trumpets are sounded, and news- 
papers sing paeans to the deep penetration, the rare 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


343 

discernment, and ingenious sagacity of the great leaders 
in whom was vested the confidence of nations. 

The plenipotentiaries, duly elated, retire with ami- 
able expressions of friendly feeling on behalf of their 
respective cabinets, which, however, does not prevent 
them, in swimming back, from casting up the muddy 
waters against each other. So much for the congress. 

And the building continues. Time passes. It is 
long since the radiance of Paradise has last been seen; 
light is ebbing away. But they build and build out of 
their own stony hearts and consciences. The structure 
arises, an informal mass; the higher it reaches, the 
plainer becomes the fact that it cannot stand. They 
have just about attained the crowning cupola, which is 
achieved by dint of innumerable strokes of policy — 
when, behold, the towering structure collapses with a 
thundering crash, heard in the farthermost regions of 
hell ! Each stone is flying back to its owner, and cries 
of despair die away in a common wail. Nothing re- 
mains but the gigantic foundation; the builders have 
fled in horror, leaving the abject kings cowering in 
misery, like Marius of old on the ruins of Carthage. 
It is night, and hell is overwhelmed with the stillness 
of death, the terrors of darkness ever and anon being 
broken by the wailings of desolate kings. 


LETTER XXX. 


Light has all but vanished. My thoughts keep wan- 
dering back to Lily — my one chance of attaining at 
least a semblance of peace. 

How sweetly she bore up against illness while she 
was able; what patience, what fortitude was hers, to 
quiet our apprehensions ! 

But she grew restless at last. We thought of re- 
turning to Europe as speedily as possible; she, however, 
entreated to be taken back to Bethlehem, and we could 
not refuse her. With all possible care we had set about 
the journey, yet were fearful of consequences on reach- 
ing our destination, though Lily assured us she felt 
better and only needed rest. 

Hours she passed reclining on a little terrace by the 
convent wall, where I had spread a canvas to protect 
her from the sun, I sitting near her; indeed I hardly 
left her now, and may well say that I was sorrowful 
unto death. It was there that, for the last time, she 
told me a story, making an effort as though to prove 
her fitness. Her last stor) 1 It was not the effort that 
overcame her — her happy smile, the sweet cadence of 
her voice said so — but death itself. . 

“The morning broke; the mists of night that veiled 
the clefts between Olivet and Jerusalem yielded to the 
return of life. The Apostle James was coming down 
the mount, — he who was called the Just, the brother 
of the Lord. He had spent the night communing with 
God on the mountain, even as the Master had been 
344 


FROM A LOST SOUL 345 

wont. And he loved the spot where his Lord had 
wrestled in agony. 

“ The apostle was going home, but, quitting the olive 
grove, he tarried a little on the hillside overlooking the 
valley. The sun was about to rise, a fresh wind scat- 
tering the curling mists. Close by lay the garden of 
Gethsemane; Brook Cedron murmured below. The 
royal city opposite lifted her brow — the proud temple 
sparkling in glory — the temple of which one stone 
soon would not be left upon another. 

“ But James hoped to be spared the awful sight, for 
he loved his town and people. A solemn foreboding 
told him that he would have run his race before and 
won the crown — a happy foreboding, for more than 
town and people he loved his Lord, and to be with Him 
for ever would be the fulness of joy. 

“ He was about to proceed when a woman came up 
to him, young and fair, but plunged in grief. She was 
but seventeen. Hot tears ran down her cheek, and she 
wrung her hands. Falling at the apostle’s feet, she im- 
plored him to pity her. Her husband, she said, had 
been struck down by a wasting fever, and was fast dy- 
ing. Physicians could not help him, and they were 
very poor. He must die, alas, and they Icved one an- 
other so truly ! 

“ The apostle looked at her in silence, as though 
reading her inmost soul. He knew her, for she had 
been present repeatedly when he had proclaimed the 
good tidings of grace. But faith had not yet taken 
root in her heart ; she clung to the world, and the love 
of self was strong. It seemed hard to give up the 
world in the flower of youth, and harder still to yield 
self. The old man continued gazing at the young 
woman silently. She felt the power of his look, and 


346 A MESSAGE 

was troubled. For with all tenderness there was in his 
eye a solemn seriousness, a holy influence over souls 
which is born of God. At last he spoke: 

“ ‘ Woman, do you love him truly? ’ 

‘ Yea, Father, with all my heart,’ replied she trem- 
blingly. 

“ ‘ As much as yourself?’ continued the apostle. 

“ ‘ Oh far more ! ’ cried she, sobs breaking her voice. 

“ ‘ It is well, my daughter; there is a means by which 
you may save your husband’s life. You may think it 
hard, but remember it is the only means! Go about 
from house to house, begging charity for him 1 ’ 

“ ‘ Alas, Father, how should alms save him from dy- 
ing?’ 

“ ‘ It is not alms of money you shall ask for, but 
alms of time. All the days, or parts of days, which 
good people for the sake of charity will yield out of 
their own lives, shall be given to your husband.’ 

“ The sorrowful wife thought within herself that at 
all events some people were inclined to charity, and 
that most valued money far more than time; that, while 
cleaving to mammon, they wasted many a precious day 
quite recklessly. She thanked the apostle, and, gather- 
ing courage, went her way. 

“ And presently she was seen going about Jerusalem, 
telling her story from door to door with numble en- 
treaty, speaking of her sick husband whom she loved, 
and of the servant of God who had directed her to the 
pity of charitable men. ‘ Oh have mercy on me,’ she 
cried; ‘ let me not ask in vain; give me a day, oh each 
of you, and God will bless you forever! ’ 

“ But it was quite hopeless. Some laughed at her, 
requesting to know if she were in her right mind; others 
pushed her away rudely for even suggesting such a 


FROM A LOST SOUL 347 

thing; others again thought it a good joke, but pre- 
ferred not to join in it. Some few, however, seemed 
ready to admit the possible efficacy of the remedy, but 
were none the less unwilling to assist in procuring the 
means. Their own lives were precarious, they said; 
they had much ado in order to provide for their fam- 
ilies, and should not feel justified in sparing any of their 
precious time. But, strange to say, the very people 
who were known to waste time most carelessly seemed 
the least willing to part with even an hour. The poor 
young wife grew faint at heart, and the cruel taunts 
she met with from some. . . 

So far Lily, and no further. One of those par- 
oxysms broke the thread of her story, and before long 
that of her life. She did not recover — the power 
of life was gone; or rather, it was as a lamp making 
a few last flickering efforts, suddenly going out in dark- 
ness. . 

Years passed. Fifteen winters had gone over my 
head; I was no longer young. I remembered at times 
Lily’s broken story, and in some hour of tender emotion 
I was one day even prevailed on to tell it to a friend, 
who thought it so admirable that he fain would have 
known the whole. 

Fifteen years ! and how little had I tried to spend 
them in a manner worthy of the lovely memory of her 
who was gone. But, strange to tell, after that lapse 
of time, a stray number of some periodical fell into my 
hands. I was startled beyond measure on noticing a 
little story entitled, “ The begging wife — a legend of 
Jerusalem.” 

Could it be Lily’s story? It was, indeed, not quite 
in the manner of her telling, but unmistakably the same, 
and no other ending would have seemed probable. 


A MESSAGE 


348 

This, then, is the continuation,: 

“ The young woman came to the door of a rich 
money-changer. Having learned her trouble he con- 
sidered awhile, looking at the matter in the light of 
a possible speculation. The dying man might have 
money, and no doubt was prepared to pay handsomely 
for what, after all, was not worth a great sum. How 
much would he give for a day? a month? a year? 
Alas, the sorrowing wife must abandon her hopes!. — 
her husband was poor — very poor. 

“ Continuing her way she met a Roman centurion. 
There was little prospect that he, a heathen, would 
have a heart for her, the Jewess. But he looked good- 
natured and she might try. 

“ Indeed the centurion understood her better than 
she expected, for if he had not faith, he had super- 
stition enough to make him credulous. 

“ ‘ My poor child,’ he said doubtfully, stroking his 
grizzly beard, ‘ I would fain help thee. But you see 
this life of mine is so uncertain that I know not for 
a truth whether I have any right to call it mine. I may 
be dead to-morrow, and by Jove it would be wicked to 
grant away what I have not got! Indeed I am not 
sure whether it would not be robbing Caesar of his due, 
for my life is sold to him. But I am very sorry for 
you, nevertheless! Shall I give you some money?” 

“ But money was not what she wanted; she said so 
sadly, and the centurion went his way. 

” She next accosted a well-to-do tradesman, the owner 
of a carpenter’s shop, employing hundreds of hands. 
That man was one of the ten lepers whom the Lord 
had cleansed, and of whom one only turned back to 
glorify God; but he was not that one. The woman 
happened to address him with the self-same words with 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


349 

which they had called upon the Son of God — ‘ Mas- 
ter, have mercy on us! ’ but he knew no mercy. Turn- 
ing to the busy scene in his shop, he answered, 
‘Woman, look at all this work; I cannot nearly meet 
demands, and yet you expect me to give you of the 
little time there is! Nay, you must ask elsewhere.’ 

“But she importuned him: ‘O master! for Rabbi 
Ben-Miriam’s sake, who pitied you, pity me and my 
husband ! ’ 

“The man had not expected to be thus reminded; 
he grew red, then pale, but found an answer presently: 

“ ‘ Well, as you seem to ktiow that story, your re- 
quest is doubly unfair. Don’t you see how much 
shorter my life is than that of other people, since I can 
only be said to have lived from the day I was healed 
of that leprosy? It is really too much to expect me 
to shorten a life already shortened. Get thee gone, 
woman; time is too precious for further talk.’ 

“ Having left the workshop, the poor wife presently 
found herself near the temple. Now, filled with grief 
though she was, she forgot not to cast her mite into 
the treasury ; and going up she met a priest who, having 
executed his office, was retiring from the house of 
God. 

“ ‘ Thou God of Abraham ! ’ he cried, drawing his 
garments about him as she meekly endeavored to kiss 
the hem. ‘ Thou God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob, 
listen to this woman ! Am / to be the victim of her 
mad request? It is sorcery! ’ 

“ ‘ I am neither mad nor given to sorcery,’ she urged 
humbly. 

“ ‘ Surely this is sorcery! ’ reiterated the priest, look- 
ing at her disdainfully. ‘ Beware, lest you be brought 
into the synagogue to be stoned ! ’ 


350 


A MESSAGE 


“ She next went to the house of a high-born Syrian 
of princely parentage, who had come to Jerusalem to 
enjoy his life. And he had enjoyed it, emptying the 
cup of pleasure to the very dregs. With his appe- 
tites blunted, he knew no longer how to waste his 
time. 

“ She was admitted. Through an inner court, a 
paradise in itself, where statues of whitest marble 
gleamed between dark-leaved shrubberies, where foun- 
tains played and birds united in chorus, where sweet 
flowrets steeped the air with fragrance; through pil- 
lared halls hung with Tyrian purple and enriched with 
gold and ivory; over floors of Roman mosaic, and 
through doors opened and shut by slaves in gorgeous 
attire, — she reached at last to where the lord of all 
this grandeur was taking his luxurious repose after the 
exertion of the bath. She found him reclining on a 
couch with half-closed eyes. An Abyssinian slave, dark 
as night, was cooling the air about his head with a fan 
of peacock feathers; while a Greek girl, fair as the day, 
stroked the soles of his feet with gentle touch. Both 
these women were beautiful, each after her kind, but 
that was not what the poor supplicant thought of. Still 
less did she consider that she herself, holding the mean 
between Abyssinian and Greek, united in her own per- 
son the beauty of both night and day, with her warm 
complexion and her lustrous eyes — that the charms 
of these women paled before hers, like stars outshone 
by the moon. 

‘ Woman,’ said the young man with languid voice, 

‘ it is true, I care little for life; it is a miserable farce 
at best. But why should I present you with that which 
hangs heavy on my own hands? I see no reason. 
Philanthropy? pooh — it is give and take in the world. 


FROM A LOST SOUL 351 

Now, what could you give me of pleasure or amusement 
that I have not tasted to the full? I loathe life; go 
and leave me to myself! * 

“ Crying bitterly, the poor wife left the house of 
the Syrian. 

“ But hers was a sacred mission ; she dared not give 
up — not yet 1 There was a certain ruler who lived 
for his pleasure, and whose liberality invited others to 
share it. To live, with him, meant to' enjoy, and, apart 
from enjoyment, the world to his understanding was a 
blank. He had known higher aims. As a youth he 
had observed all the commandments and had been anx- 
ious to inherit life. He was that same young man who 
came to the Lord saying : ‘ All these things have I 

kept — what lack I yet ? But He whom he had called 
Good Master told him: ‘If thou wilt be perfect, 
go and sell that thou hast, and give it to the poor, and 
thou shalt have treasure in heaven, and come and follow 
me ! ’ And that was not what the young man had ex- 
pected; for he had great possessions. 

“ It was a turning point in his life, and from that 
moment he ceased believing in an inheritance beyond 
the grave. He joined the Sadducees, who said that 
there was no resurrection, and became one of their most 
zealous followers. The poor young woman, therefore, 
could not well have asked of one more unlikely to give. 
The rich man replied contemptuously: 

“‘How foolish and surpassingly arrogant! I have! 
but this one life, and do you expect me to be lavish of 
it to any chance comer. Know that a day of my ex- 
istence could not be paid for with all the gold of Ophir ! 
You have mistaken me, my pretty child; you had better 
apply to the Pharisees.’ 

“ For two full days she continued begging from 


A MESSAGE 


352 

house to house, well-nigh exhausting the streets of Je- 
rusalem; but all she obtained was unkindly speeches, 
if not worse. 

“ At the close of the second day she yielded to de- 
spair, falling on the ground by the gate of Damascus, 
tired to death and undone with grief. There she lay 
with a dull sense of misery. But suddenly the well of 
her tears was dried, a smile like a gleam of sunshine 
lighting up her grief-worn face. Fatigue was nothing 
now; she rose quickly and went to where she knew she 
would find the apostle. 

“‘Well, my daughter, and how have you sped?’ 
asked he, with loving sympathy. 

“ ‘ Alas, Father, men are void of pity. The world 
is evil, and Its sinful desires are for self only.’* 

“ ‘ You say truly. Compassion Is with God alone.’ 

“ ‘ Yes, Father, and to Him therefore will I go. No 
one will give me as much as a single day, and many 
days are needed to restore my husband to my love. 

I well-nigh despaired. But suddenly I remembered 
that I had a life — and to judge from my great youth, 
a long life — before me. O man of God ! tell me, may 
I not give of mine own abundance what hard-hearted 
men are not willing to make up between them? My 
husband is half my life to me; let me give him, then, 
the half of my life. Let us live together and die to- 
gether. Or, if it must be, let him have the whole; I' 
am willing to die, so that he may live.’ 

“ Thus she entreated, the tears flowing down gently 
over her lovelit face. But the apostle touched her 
head with a hand of blessing, and said, deeply moved: 

“ ‘ Daughter, be of good cheer; thou hast found 
grace In the sight of God. Depart In peace; thy hus- 
band is given thee, and ye shall live together! ’ ” 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


353 

This is the story — Lily’s last. Ask me not to 
describe to you the impression it made on me. I felt 
as though Lily indeed were speaking to me from another 
world. My tears fell on the page and I bowed my 
head, sorrowing not so much for Lily as for myself. 

One thing I felt certain of even then. Had the 
choice been given me, I would gladly have divided 
my life with her; ay, selfish as I was, I believe I could 
have given up the whole to save hers. For I did love 
her! But now what use was the story to me, save 
that it moved my tears — a few tears which I was 
ashamed to show. 

I endeavor to conclude this letter by the fast-failing 
light. I tremble — I tremble, at the coming darkness. 
This fear, I suspect, is chiefly born from a feeling that 
a night to come — we know riot how soon — will usher 
in the day of judgment. Ah, fearful night, that will 
bring us to the day when the Son of Man shall come 
in the clouds of heaven 1 

Lost! — it is a terrible word, enclosing all the hor- 
rors of hell. Am I lost — lost forever? Not yet, the 
forever is to come, says a voice within. But again, is 
there hope? is there a possibility of being saved? I 
cannot say. Both yes and no seem beyond me. Some- 
times I do try and cling to a faint shadow of hope. 
But it darts through my soul as a flash of lightning; I 
am utterly unable to hold it fast. At times, again, 
when I have gone through seasons of deepest suffering, 
a sudden calm sinks down upon me. Dare I think it 
healing peace? But no sooner am I aware of it than 
it is gone, and I even doubt that it was. 

Of course there can be no such thing as conversion 
in hell. But I keep asking — might it not be possible 


A MESSAGE 


354 

that all these terrible sufferings, both of retrospect and 
of present reality, had power to prepare the soul; that 
perchance at the moment when it is called out to appear 
at the great judgment, it will flee to the Saviour and 
clasp His feet for mercy and peace? And if it were so, 
what if it were thousands of years hence, or tens of 
thousands, how infinitely precious were this hope ! Let 
me suffer, however long, if so great a salvation were 
possible in the end. 

Lily! ah, I know that she loves me, with a heav- 
enly tenderness akin to the Saviour’s for His own. 
And if the power of love — that wondrous mystery — 
be more than a mere fable, there is at any rate this one 
bond left between me and life. For I know my Lily; 
that bond will never break in all eternity. But a bond 
which will neither break nor bring about union surely 
cannot exist in the sight of heaven 1 

And again, could Lily be happy — enjoy salvation 
without me? That is another question. Can she be 
content to live when I am lost? And will God deny 
her what she loved most on earth, what even now in 
heaven she loves most, next to Him? I cannot be- 
lieve it. So this leaves me with a hope — a hope cen- 
tered in Lily. Not because she has power to save me, 
but because she had been appointed to lead me to the 
feet of the Saviour. Perhaps — perhaps it will be 
given her to do so in a future age. She may yet 
show me the Cross, even as I — all unworthy — 
showed it to her when she died. Did she not say 
with her last breath that we should meet again? And 
with this sure hope she fell asleep in peace! Is it 
possible that God would have let her leave me with a 
peace founded on an untimth, a miserable delusion, 
even at the solemn moment of entering His presence? 


FROM A LOST SOUL 355 

Surely it is impossible. So the conclusion seems to 
lie very near, but I dare not — I dare not draw it ! 

Again, also — the whole of hell is burdened with 
a feeling, veiled and but dimly understood, that there 
is a possibility of redemption before the final word is 
spoken, when all is at an end. Hope raises her front, 
however feebly — yea, a great hope. And surely God, 
being what He is, could never let millions of miserable 
souls feed on that streak of light if it were mere de- 
lusion — surely, surely not ! He is the God of jus- 
tice, and we receive the due reward of our deeds; but, 
again. He is the God of mercy and unspeakable ten- 
derness, who can never delight in our misery. And 
He is the God of truth; He cannot let us feed on a 
lie ! And yet, is it not possible also that delusion is 
part of the punishment, being, like everything else, the 
outcome of a sin-deluded life? Ah, woe is me, where 
is that hope which but a moment since illumined my 
soul as with a reflection of eternity? it is gone — gone, 
like a false dawn swallowed up in night! . . . . 

I give up. My heart would break, but nothing ever 
breaks here. Hearts here are strong to bear any 
amount of misery. 

No, we are not so fortunate as to break our hearts. 
I was thinking of something else. . . . There 

may be a hope left — nothing certainly could be much 
worse. . . . Things are desperately fast here, 

and not made for rupture. All is cause and effect, 
past act and consequence. Indeed, since the word 
“ hell ” seems to have become objectionable with well- 
bred people, let me suggest their calling this place The 
JForld of Consequences! 

Have you any idea that I am writing in an agony 
of despair? You would shrink back from me in hor- 


A MESSAGE 


356 

ror could you see me, though perchance you still call 
me friend. May heaven preserve you from ever see- 
ing me ! 

But I forget, I was trying to finish this letter. It 
may be long, very long, before you hear of me again, 
if ever! I still will call you friend, yet it will be nat- 
ural that if all break, friendship too must vanish. 

Farewell, then, my friend. Please God, we shall 
never meet! 

I wrote the above as the awful night was spreading 
her wings, — oh how I dreaded its settling ! Every re- 
newed darkness brings new agony, new despair. And 
as soon as the light has vanished entirely, hell is swept 
of everything with which imagination had endowed 
it: towns, castles, houses, parks, churches, clubs, and 
all places of amusement — everything has vanished, 
leaving a desert void, and souls unclothed of aught but 
bare being. Hell is then like a vast dungeon where 
man and woman, rich and poor, crawl about in utter 
loneliness. While the light lasted, dusky though at 
best it is, one could arrange oneself according ta 
one’s fancy, having everything one listed, unreal though 
it were — mere shadows of thought: still it is a kind 
of occupation to surround oneself with imagined pos- 
sessions; but this terrible night admits of no such jug- 
glery. It leaves me naked, poor, forsaken, homeless, 
friendless — a prey to bitter reality. I shrink together 
within my miserable self, not knowing where I am, or 
who may be near me. Nor do I care to know, filled 
with the one thought that I am in the place of lost souls 
— lost myself. 

Evil thoughts keep settling round my heart, be- 
leaguering it as the ruthless Romans did the unhappy 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


357 

city of David. This siege, too, ends with a terrible 
destruction, an agony of suffering, the like of which the 
world has never seen. 

As before, I passed the long night shuddering, trem- 
bling for outward cold, but with a horrible fire 
within. You say in the world, and say truly, that there 
are conflicts in which even strong men fail. Alas, the 
hardest conflict now seems a happy condition, for here 
struggling is at an end, as being too good for hell! 
There is only raving and madness here, — a kind of 
spiritual suicide even, — but no struggling for victory. 
The soul here is a victim, forsaken by the powers of 
good. Every little devil is permitted to fasten his mis- 
erable claws on the helpless mind. Understand me, it 
is a figure of speech. There are no, devils in this place 
save our own evil desires, passions, and sinful thoughts. 
Satan at times is here, but, thanks be to God, not yet 
has he final power over the soul. 

In this very night he was present — come to look on 
the miserable beings he delights in considering his. 
Though not always, yet generally, he chooses dark- 
ness for his visits. As a sudden whirlwind, felt but not 
seen, he is among us, and hell is frozen with horror. 
All the millions of souls then shrink together in an 
agony of unutterable fear, knowing that one is among 
them who never knew pity and truth — the great de- 
stroyer, ready to destroy them. And this is the dread- 
ful thing, that, though certain of his presence — ay, 
feeling it — not one of us can say, see here! see there! 
You hear a crackling as of fire — serpents of flame 
keep darting across the tenebrous space, showing his 
path; but where is he, the dread enemy? His consum- 
ing eye at this very rnoment may be upon you, gloat- 
ing over your trembling soul. 


A MESSAGE 


358 

I will be silent — I cannot dw^ell on these horrors. 
Be it enough to say that again and again I felt my- 
self in the very grasp of the evil one, who seemed to 
dally with my anguish. It took all manner of forms 

— suffice it to give one : I suddenly felt as though I 
were a bottomless ocean, in which my sins were swim- 
ming about like fish. And the devil sat on the shore, 
grinning and throwing his lines, using now this evil de- 
sire, now that, as a bait. He was an expert, catching 
fish upon fish. Suddenly the float disappeared, 
dragged down Into the deep — a good catch no doubt. 
He brought it up triumphantly — O Lord of pity, my 
own heart, bleeding and writhing! It was horrible, 
horrible 1 Let me drop the veil. 

This too is Imagination of course, or, at worst, Sa- 
tan’s own evil pastime with the hopeless mind. But, 
nevertheless, what Is there more real than death? and 
I suffered a hundred deaths In that night. 

At last, at last — I know not after what length of 
time — hell was given up again to Its own state of 
misery — rising to It with a gasp as out of a fearful 
dream. 

Then I felt it a relief almost to be but a prey once 
more to my own evil thoughts. Bad as it was, to be 
left to myself seemed gain. As before, the whole of 
my past life was unrolled to my sight, sin upon sin, 
failure upon failure, gnawing at my heart till It was 
but a single festering wound. 

But with all this suffering, a longing w’as blended 
more deep, more burning, than any I had felt before. 
Not for the life behind me, — the world with Its 
pleasures was dead, — but for a living soul I thirsted — 
a soul to understand me. Lily, my father. Aunt Betty 

— from them I was separated to eternity, a great gulf 


FROM A LOST SOUL 359 

being fixed between them and me; but my mother — 
my own mother — there was only death between me 
and her, and a wondrous truth lies hidden in that word 
— love is stronger than death. That was the closest 
bond after all — that between my mother and me — 
the bond of Nature ! What in all the universe could 
be better than a mother’s love! With a thirsty long- 
ing my thoughts turned to her — O mother, where art 
thou ? 

And here again a great pain side by side with yearn- 
ing. How badly I had rewarded her love in life! 
Had I not been her one and all? but she, in truth, w^as 
very little to me. How wrongly I had judged her, 
often thinking meanly of her motives, deeming her 
cold and worldly — a selfish nature to which the ap- 
preciation of society was more than the heart’s good- 
ness — to which Christianity even was a mere matter 
of propriety; in which faith and charity were not strong 
enough to teach her that self and the world should 
be sacrificed, but which hesitated not to sacrifice even 
the holiest on the world’s altars to the advantage of 
self! 

How wickedly I had thought of her, ungrateful 
wretch that I was! I grieved for it now; surely she 
had been the best of mothers — the most perfect of 
women, loving and good ! 

These painful thoughts unnerved me — I felt weak 
and softened. “O mother, dear, mother!” my heart 
kept crying with the wail of a child. I care not if you 
laugh at me, but I had come to this — I longed for her 
with the simple longing of the hungry babe for the 
mother’s breast. 

For the first time the desire was strong in me to 
return to the upper world — an indescribable power 


A MESSAGE 


360 

drawing me irresistibly. The ghost nature was flut- 
tering within me, lifting its wings, urging me to go; 
but my yearning found vent In the cry only, “ Mother, 
mother ! ” 


A faint streak of dawn. My eye fell on a cowering 
figure. Ill-shaped and moaning, sunk In a heap not far 
from me. An impossible, frightful thought stole 
through me at the sight. My soul heaved like a storm- 
lashed sea. 

The figure moved and turned. . . . God In 

heaven, that terrible face, ghastly and distorted. It was 
. . . It was . . . my mother’s ! 

I dashed away In headlong flight — I could, I would 
not believe It. . . . 

But alas, my friend, what matters my believing It or 
not — It was my mother ! 

Poor, poor mother! This Is the crushing blow, if 
such there be here. I thought I had known the worst 
— but this Is awful, awful! 

What more shall I say? Words are powerless — 
the despair of hell you cannot conceive. It were poor 
consolation that, being equally miserable now, we might 
weep together, uphold one another, comforting each 
other in pain. But even that is denied! Tears we 
have not — sympathy there is not; at least, I have not 
found It — and naturally, since love is utterly unknown 
here. We can only cower side by side, through ages 
to come, — each taken up with self. Fellowship? 
Nay, but It Is worse than desert loneliness. We have 
not a word to say to one another; we dread to look 
at each other. Everything between us Is cold, dead — 
dead. We have our own agony of fire, each within 


FROM A LOST SOUL 


361 

the soul; but that fire which goes forth to warm an- 
other is as a burnt-out crater filled with the ashes of de- 
spair. . . . 

I can no more . . . fare thee well ! 

22 





HEAVEN 


THE HOME OF 

THE REDEEMED 

By rev. WM. H. LINDEMUTH 


“ If a man die shall he live again.” 

The home in Heaven. 

What we know about Heaven. 

Heaven a place, a definite locality. 

Heaven a place of exquisite beauty. 

Heaven will meet real human wants. 
Heaven will be a place of rest. 

Heaven a place of occupation for the mind. 
Heaven a place of purity for the soul. 
Heaven a place of unalloyed happiness. 


HEAVEN. 


Man is destined for the glory of another world 
where his soul, untrammelled, will make perpetual 
progress to its perfection. So man may cry : “ This 
is not my whole life. This body is not my whole heri- 
tage. I go to that bright land where the immortal 
part shines up and on forever and ever.” 

To live again is the hunger of the soul. As the 
babe instinctively takes nourishment at the mother’s 
bosom, so men, without instruction, have reached out 
for a future life. Go along the years and put your 
question, “If a man die shall he live again?” There 
is but one response. Man’s soul is in exile. Like the 
homing pigeon, when he is released, man flies back to 
God. The race is home-sick. Man is not forever sat- 
isfied with humanity; divinity is planted within him. 
The soul intuitively reaches for life, and the God who 
gave him this reach will see to it that it comes to his 
grasp. Now we are certain of several things. First, 
The instincts and aspiration of nature crave for im- 
mortality. Second, The mind of man, through the help 
of natural religion, has been able to hold a sense of 
immortality which has comforted him with the prob- 
ability of a future life. Third, The life after death 
is the cardinal doctrine of Christianity. “ Without 
such a belief,” says Max Muller, “ religion is like an 
arch resting on one pillar, like a bridge ending in an 
abyss.” 

Peering anxiously through the mists of time, the sad 
heart sometimes pleadingly asks, “ But where is 

365 


HEAVEN 


366 

heaven?” Surely, it is a place, somewhere, for Christ 
said “ I go to prepare a place for you.” It cannot be 
far away, for under the bidding of the Master Lazarus 
could instantly “ come forth ” from its mysterious 
chambers, and the repentant thief was promised, “ To- 
day thou shalt be with Me in Paradise.” 

THE HOME IN HEAVEN. 

When Sir Walter Scott came back from Italy, 
broken in mind and body, to die in his beautiful Ab- 
botsford, the pride and ambition of his life, as he 
approached the old familiar scenes of other years, he 
aroused from his stupor, and cried, “ There’s Gala 
Water!” “Yonder are the Eildon Hills!” And 
when Abbotsford came into view, he had his attendants 
lift him in the carriage that he might look in rapture 
upon the lovely building and its beautiful surround- 
ings. He was soon to leave forever those walls and 
towers, his gardens and dogs, his books and pictures, 
and all the old landmarks that he loved. He had come 
home to die. But his great consolation was that he 
was again at home. It is the word “ Home ” which 
casts its magic spell over us in this world, and what 
shall be our feelings when we think of “ the Home 
over there.” Jesus has said, “ In my Father’s House 
are many mansions.” If the language of His time had 
possessed a word for “ home ” Christ would have used 
it in this connection, for He certainly referred to the 
Heavenly Home. 

How is it with us from day to day? Are we 
thinking with joy and sweet expectation of the beauti- 
ful Home that will some day be ours? Do we realize 
that we are going Home? Do we ever get home- 


HEAVEN 


367 

sick, as Paul did, for the “Better Land”? “Blessed 
are the homesick,” said Heine, “ for they shall get 
home.” So our eyes may light up at the thought, our 
hearts may sing for joy, as we look away from this 
transitory abode to our eternal abiding place. We 
should be able to say from our souls, as Bonar said, 

“ When I shall wake on that fair morn of morns 
After whose dawning never night returns. 

And with whose glory day eternal burns, 

I shall be satisfied.” 

All our hopes should centre there — in Heaven. All 
our ambitions should look thither — ^ to Heaven. All 
our loves should reach to that shore — to Heaven. 
All our longings should end there — in Heaven. If 
we follow the guidance of the one Book which tells 
us of the Heavenly Home and the way thither, we will 
riot be disappointed at last. 

In any effort to describe Heaven we arc embarrassed 
by the poverty of language to fully express the beauties 
and glories of the Place and its pursuits. Even Paul, 
when he was lifted up to a superlative view of the 
world beyond, could not tell what he had seen and 
heard. He was not forbidden to report what he had 
experienced in that vision; he was simply unable to do 
it. There was no analogue in human speech which 
would enable him to convey his thought. “ Eye hath 
not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the 
heart of man, the things which God hath prepared 
for them that love Him.” When little Prince Ro- 
land, sitting upon the knees of King Charlemagne, be- 
sought the great Ruler to tell him what treasures were 
to be his when he should be king, the wise king shook 


HEAVEN 


368 

his head and grew thoughtful. How could a little 
child receive from a great ruler the full story of cas- 
tles and palaces, and kingly realms that were to be his 
when childhood had passed away? The very silence 
of Charlemagne foretold a wealth that was beyond de- 
scription. Even so is it when we approach the Bible 
with the question of Heaven and our possessions there. 
The complete revelation would be far beyond our child- 
ish understanding. Jesus said, “ If it were not so I 
would have told you.” That is enough. The very 
silence of the Bible about Heaven is the best proof of 
the unspeakable glory and the joy that shall be ours 
when we get “ Home.” 

WHAT WE KNOW ABOUT HEAVEN. 

Though an impenetrable veil hangs before the Holiest 
of All, and many questions must remain unsolved 
here, a window has been opened in the positive decla- 
rations and rational promises of God’s Word, and 
we catch glimmering views of the New Jerusalem, the 
Heavenly city, whose gates will open to all who seek 
admission through Christ the Saviour. “ After this I 
looked, and, behold a door was opened in Heaven, and 
the first voice which I heard was as it were of a trum- 
pet talking with me: which said. Come up hither and 
I will show thee things which must be hereafter.” 
This was the vision which cheered John, the Dreamer 
on Patmos. He had once been of that company of 
the Disciples whom the Master had encouraged by 
His words of hope, ‘‘ Let not your hearts be troubled; 
In My Father’s House are many mansions.” This 
revelation was a source of unspeakable comfort to the 
Disciples, and, together with the “ sure words of 


HEAVEN 


369 

prophecy,” has cheered many a lonely pilgrim since. 

Let us think of Heaven awhile. What do we know 
about it? Where is it? What is its character? 
What are its associations and employments? Who are 
its inhabitants? Shall we meet there those whom “ we 
have loved long since and lost awhile? May we all go 
to Heaven? What are the facts revealed to us con- 
cerning the Heavenly Home? 


HEAVEN IS A PLACE, A DEFINITE LOCALITY. 

Is Heaven a Place, or is it simply a state of existence ? 
Is it local, material, tangible? The language that 
Jesus used in speaking of Heaven forbids the idea that 
it is merely a state of mind, a moral condition. 
He frequently referred to the Place where God is, and 
where God’s children are to be. He said concerning 
Himself, “ I came down from Heaven.” He prophe- 
sied that He would again return to His Heavenly seat. 
This alone would preclude the speculation concerning 
the abstract character of the future world. The com- 
mon imagination that Paradise is a lofty aerial region 
where the inhabitants float in ether, or are mysteriously 
suspended on nothing, where every vestige of material- 
ism is done away, is not in accord with reason or Scrip- 
ture. The idea of a Place of happiness for the de- 
parted is coextensive with the idea of immortality. 
The rude savage and the cultured heathen have shared 
the opinion that the dead have gone to the Place where 
God has revealed His greatest glory. They have ex- 
pressed in this fancy their thought of the Elysian 
Fields, Hesperian Gardens, and Islands of the Blest. 
Jesus not only said, “ I go to prepare a place for you,” 


HEAVEN 


370 

but He gave utterance to this thought in His remark- 
able prayer for His Disciples, “ Father, I will that they 
also whom Thou hast given Me be with Me where I 
am that they may behold My glory, which Thou hast 
given Me.” If Heaven is not a material and local 
habitation, then all such language is meaningless. 

All the analogies of soul and body here declare the 
necessity of similar relations in the future life. The 
faculties of the soul are dependent upon a material body 
for their manifest activity in this life, and it can- 
not be otherwise in the life to come unless God will 
destroy our five senses and establish new modes of 
operation for sense reason, and memory. All matter 
does not necessarily have the same form. In this world 
there are different manifestations of material substance. 
We see matter in its crudest form in the stone and 
clod. On the other hand, we behold it in the finer 
forms of the air and the sunbeam. They are all ma- 
terial substances, but differing in fineness of quality. 
The body that shall be may still be material and yet 
infinitely finer than this one. As the glory of the sun- 
beam far exceeds the glory of the stone, so shall the 
resurrection body appear with excellences superior to 
this mortal body. 

For such a body, refined and immortalized, inhabited 
by the redeemed soul, God has evidently provided a 
place of existence. 

Apart from all rational considerations, our argu- 
ment may rest upon the terms of Scripture, which is 
our final appeal in all matters relating to the life be- 
yond this life. In the Bible Heaven is spoken of as, 
“ My Father’s House,” as “ Paradise,” a “ City,” the 
“ Holy Place,” the “ New Jerusalem.” Do we not feel 
that such references are more than figurative of a state 


HEAVEN 


371 

of existence? Not more real to Moses was Pales- 
tine, when from the top of Pisgah he looked upon its 
fertile fields and valleys and green mountain slopes, 
than is the Heaven which awaits us in the hereafter. 
By intuition the child points upward toward Heaven, 
and he believes that there is a Place where God and 
His angels are, where his loved ones dwell. We know 
not where it is, but we feel that it is a definite Place. 
There are some among the fathers who believed 
it was located in Alcyone of the Pleiades, which was 
regarded as the central star of the universal system. 
We must admit that there is a fascination in the de- 
lightful theory that Heaven is the centre of the uni- 
verse. The Scriptures point to a place in some high 
and far off region of space. “ The Lord hath pre- 
pared His throne in the heavens.” “ A glorious high 
throne from the beginning is Thy sanctuary.” We do 
not know that such Scripture is the proof of the astro- 
nomical theory that there is a great central sun, as great 
and large in proportion as all the systems it controls, 
and that Heaven is located there. But we must ad- 
mit its fascination for our faith. It is useless to further 
speculate upon its location. That is one of the secrets 
of Jehovah. It is enough to know that it is our Fa- 
ther’s House, our Home-land, and if we are the true 
children of God we shall some day enter into the in- 
heritance of the saints in light. 

“ There on the throne the Lamb once slain is seated. 
The Shepherd’s joy upon His Holy Face; 

♦While countless hosts, their warfare all completed, 

In circling bands lift ceaseless songs of praise. 


HEAVEN 


372 

O sorrowing souls, beneath earth’s burdens bending, 
Lift up your eyes to yonder City fair; 

And through your tears let praise be still ascending 
For rest and home and loved ones waiting there.” 


HEAVEN IS A PLACE OF EXQUISITE BEAUTY. 

That was impressed upon John in his Patmos vision. 
It is significant that the last two chapters of his 
Revelation relate strictly to a description of the Heav- 
enly Jerusalem. In the previous chapters he has traced 
in mystic figures the Church up to the general resur- 
rection and the last judgment, and, as a climax, his 
vision opens to view the glories of the Heavenly Jeru- 
salem and the blessed condition of the saints. “ And 
the City had twelve gates; every gate was one of pearl; 
and the street of the City was pure gold, as it were 
transparent glass. Its foundations were garnished with 
all manner of precious stones; jasper and sapphire; 
chalcedony and emerald; sardonyx, sardius and chryso- 
lite; beryl, topaz, chrysoprasus, jacinth, and amethyst.” 
It is needless to say that these figures of the Apoca- 
lypse are not to be interpreted literally, but they repre- 
sent the highest efforts of poetical description to con- 
vey to human minds that Place of surpassing splendors. 
Whatever there is in gold and precious gems to express 
supreme loveliness and infinite beauty is to be taken as 
but a feeble description of the glory and magnificence 
of the Heavenly City. 

An American artist once sat in his studio with a 
Bible open before him, engaged in arranging squares of 
colored glass. His guide book was the 21st chap- 
ter of Revelation. “ I have made a singular dis- 


HEAVEN 373 

covery,” he said. “ These are the precious stones in 
the foundation of the New Jerusalem, and when placed 
in the order described in the Vision they form a per- 
fect harmony of color. Were a convention of artists 
called to produce a perfect color scheme, they could not 
improve upon this one.” Heaven is all beauty because 
it is all harmony. It is all glorious. 

“ That clime is not like this dull clime of ours; 

All, all is brightness there; 

A sweeter influence breathes around its flowers. 
And a benignant air. 

No calm below is like that calm above, 

No region here is like that realm of love; 

Earth’s softest Spring ne’er shed so soft a light, 
Earth’s brightest Summer never shone so bright. 

That sky is not like this sad sky of ours. 

Tinged with earth’s change and care; 

No shadow dims it, and no rain-cloud lowers; 

No broken sunshine there: 

One everlasting stretch of azure pours 

Its stainless splendor o’er those sinless shores; 

For there Jehovah shines with heavenly ray, 

And Jesus reigns,' dispensing endless day.” 

In their holy estate Adam and Eve lived amid the 
material beauty of lovely Paradise, and it would seem 
that the gifts of Nature in that Garden of Delights 
were bestowed to enhance their happiness and elevate 
their holy minds. The myriad forms of beauty would 
suggest a thousand thoughts of their Creator. They 
looked through Nature up to Nature’s God. What 
happiness was theirs whose home was in the midst of 


374 HEAVEN 

cool retreats and spicy groves, embowered walks, mossy 
seats, crystal streams and fragrant flowers and lus- 
cious fruits ! We know not what were all the environ- 
ments of Eden, but no one doubts that it was a 
place of exquisite loveliness, and the similitude of the 
Paradise above. If earth is still so beautiful under 
a curse, how surpassingly glorious it must have been 
when “ the animations of life met no barriers, and 
were subject to no obscuration, and knew no decay.” 

In some portions of Scripture the scenery of Heaven 
is represented as similar to that of earth. That there 
will be trees and streams and mountains and birds and 
flowers is in the range of possibility. At least we know 
that these objects of Nature are so beautiful and de- 
lightful here that they would contribute much to the 
beauty of another world. We feel that Heaven is a 
natural and not an artificial adjustment, and the more 
we think about it in a natural way the more does it 
satisfy our longings. 

It may be but the poet’s fancy, and yet we delight 
to hang our thoughts on such words as these : — 

“ All the walls of that dear City 

Are of bright and burnished gold; 

It is matchless in its beauty; 

And its treasures are untold. 

From the throne a river issues. 

Clear as crystal, passing bright 

And it traverses the City 

Like a sudden beam of light. 

Where it waters leafy Eden, 

Rolling over silver sands, 


HEAVEN 


375 


Sit the angels softly chiming 

On the harps between their hands. 

There the meadows, green and dewy, 

Shine with lilies wondrous fair, 

Thousand, thousand are the colors 
Of the waving flowers there. 

There the forests ever blossom 
Like our orchards here in May, 

There the gardens never wither 
But eternally are gay. 

There are roses and carnations. 

There the honeysuckles twine. 

There along the river edges 
Golden jonquils ever shine 

There the water-lilies open 
Lying on the sea of glass. 

There the Yellow Crocus glimmers 
Like a flame amidst the grass. 

There the wind is sweetly fragrant 
And is laden with the song 
Of the seraphs and the elders 

And the great redeemed throng.” 

The Heavenly Home is a place of beauty. We be- 
lieve that, and, whatever may be the constitution of 
things that combine to make up its loveliness, it is 
Jerusalem the Golden. 


376 


HEAVEN 


HEAVEN WILL MEET REAL HUMAN WANTS. 

The provisions of heaven will meet real human wants 
and will correspond to the qualities and capacities of 
human nature. 

For some the subject, “ Heaven,” has been spoiled be- 
cause of the way it has been handled. Our ideas of 
it must be entirely natural. There we shall continue 
to be ourselves. We shall have body, mind, and soul, 
but our capacities will be greatly enlarged, and under 
the conditions of a glorified existence, greater opportu- 
nities will spread before them. 

It is perfectly natural that our ideas of that Heavenly 
Home should be colored by our longings here. We 
hope for all that we know to be good now, and for 
the opposite of that which has limited our develop- 
ment in the mortal body, and given us the sharpest 
pangs on earth. 

When Robert Hall was asked for his opinion of what 
Heaven is, he replied, “ Heaven is a place of rest.” 
He said that because he had suffered much physical 
pain, and this made him long for a condition where 
bodily suffering was unknown. That was natural. 
We all want forever a condition of being which will 
perfectly satisfy the body, mind, and soul. 

“ What is Heaven? ” I asked a little child. 

“All joy! ’’-and in her innocence she smiled. 

I asked the aged, with her care oppressed. 

“ All suffering o’er, O Heaven at last is rest.” 


HEAVEN 


377 


I asked a maiden, meek and tender eyed. 

“ It must be love! ” she modestly replied. 

I asked the artist who adored his art. 

“ Heaven Is all beauty! ” spoke his raptured heart. 

I asked the poet with his soul afire. 

“ ’ Tis glory ! glory ! ” and he struck his lyre. 

I asked the Christian waiting his release. 

A halo round him. Low he murmured, “ Peace.” 

So all may look with hopeful eyes above, 

’Tis beauty, glory, joy, rest, peace, and love.” 

HEAVEN WILL BE A PLACE OF REST. 

The physical side of the next life Is emphasized and 
illumined by the resurrection. There we shall have a 
body with environment to suit. How God will pre- 
serve the identity of this body we cannot tell. We 
need not even care to know. The dead will be raised 
incorruptible, and we shall be changed. Here our 
body is called a vile body, or, more literally, a body 
of humiliation, of blemishes. But there it will be a 
beautiful, healthy. Immortal body, free from all weak- 
nesses, all vices, all corruption. Here we have bodily 
cravings, we are hungry and thirsty, but there “ they 
shall hunger no more, neither thirst any more, for the 
Lamb which Is In the midst of the throne shall feed 
them, and shall lead them into living fountains of 
waters.” Here we grow weary of life’s burdens; we 
toil on, sick at heart, seeking rest and finding none, but 
yonder is a land of rest. 

23 


378 


HEAVEN 


“ No more fatigue, no more distress, 

Nor sin, nor hell, shall reach that place, 

No sighs shall mingle with the songs 
Which warble from immortal tongues.” 

HEAVEN WILL BE A PLACE OF OCCUPATION FOR THE 
MIND. 

The pleasures of intellect are among the highest of 
which we are capable in this world. Yet how little 
comparatively we know in this life ! The acquisitions 
of a Newton seemed to him, in view of the great 
ocean of knowledge spreading before him, like the 
boys gathering pebbles on the beach. After all intel- 
lectual research the mind of man is still in ignorance 
with reference to the most important and profound sub- 
jects of knowledge. Then again, the smallest number 
of human beings are gifted with great intellectual reach 
and grasp. The world is full of dwarfed intellects, 
limited by bodily ills, constitutional environments, and 
lack of chance for the fullest development. When is 
the mind of man to have its fullest development? We 
answer. In Heaven. 

In Heaven there will doubtless be unlimited mental 
activity. That thought alone thrills our hopes and sets 
our minds to throbbing. Our intellectual faculties will 
be glorified, and, if in this life they often give us 
inexpressible pleasure, how ineffable will be our satis- 
faction in dealing with eternal truths ! “ Now we 

know in part. Sin has enfeebled our mental powers in 
their grasp of great thoughts, but they will be released 
from this bondage and perfected for illimitable pur- 
suits of knowledge in the Home above. Who can tell 
the heavenly capabilities of reason, judgment, memory. 


HEAVEN 


379 

and imagination? Now we study as by candle-light, 
but when the morning breaks, and the beauties of 
a new world are spread out before our waking vision, 
we shall behold all things as in a blaze of day. That 
will be “ a world of solved problems and realized 
ideals.” Think of the acquisitions of knowledge con- 
cerning God, His attributes and works, concerning 
faith, love, and obedience, think of the grasping of new 
ideas, of the unrolling of the history of the past, of 
knowledge of Time and Space, of the wonders of the 
stars and the regions beyond! Through eternity the 
mind will roam over these exhaustless fields and find 
new wonders every hour. There Newton and Keplar 
will take increasing delight in heavenly explorations; 
there Luther and Wesley, Whitefield and Spurgeon, 
will be more enraptured by the essential truths of Chris- 
tianity, — God, Christ, and immortality. There the 
painter and the sculptor, the poet and the scientist, will 
find new forms to attract Investigation In relation to 
the laws of the universe. There they who have lived 
in a limited world of Intellectual pursuits here will 
feel the joys of an expanding mind, and new thoughts, 
new ideals, new opportunities will make the life of 
Heaven an unceasing joy In the acquisition of knowl- 
edge. Think, O soul, with what increased strength 
thou shalt enter that school where God Himself Is the 
Teacher and thou art the pupil! Truly, for the Intel- 
lect there shall be “ no night there.” No night of er- 
ror, no night of Ignorance, no night of limited facul- 
ties, no Incapacity from the bodily senses. The ways 
of Providence shall be made clear; the mysteries of 
Grace shall be unfolded; the things hard to understand 
shall all be made known. That will be the thinker’s 
unlimited realm. We shall think God’s thoughts after 


HEAVEN 


380 

Him. We shall have the Book of Knowledge with 
eternal leaves and unbounded capacity to read them. 


HEAVEN WILL BE A PLACE OF PURITY FOR THE SOUL. 

It is a holy Place. Its beauty is distinctly the 
“ beauty of holiness.” On its throne sits the ineffable 
God, before whom angels and archangels veil their 
faces, filling the arches of the City with their adoring 
song: “ Holy, holy, holy is the Lord of Hosts! ” 

When John looked through the open window into 
Heaven he caught glimpses of a white-robed multitude. 
“Who are these arrayed in white robes?” was his in- 
stant query. “ These are they who have washed their 
robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.” 
They had come up through sin and tribulation, and now 
they were supremely happy in a place where purity 
reigned. The struggle with corrupt human nature was 
over. There was no temptation, no evil heart of un- 
belief, no sinful desires, no night of impurity. They 
beheld the King in the beauty of His holiness. 

That is Heaven, — a place of purity. Its badge of 
honor is purity. Its joy is the joy of purity. Its dig- 
nity is the honor of purity. All its perfections are the 
perfections of purity. What must it be to live for- 
ever under such refulgence of purity and holiness 1 All 
unholiness shut out, conscience free from dead works, 
every faculty and every sense in tune with the glory 
and beauty of the new world. It is a pure world for 
the pure. 


HEAVEN 


381 


HEAVEN IS A PLACE OF UNALLOYED HAPPINESS. 

This is a summary expression of all that we have said 
about Heaven. The human soul craves for hap- 
piness, but in this world there is a strange mixture of 
joy and sorrow, of tears and laughter, of rest and 
weariness, of health and sickness, of light and darkness. 
It is the common experience that no one can be per- 
fectly happy in this world. But, thank God, there 
is a Place where joy, rest, and peace shall be experienced 
in perfection. “ God shall wipe all tears from their 
eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither 
sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more 
pain.” “ And there shall be no night there.” There 
shall be no more sin, and consequently no more misery; 
no more affliction of bodies, no desolate homes, no. 
breaking hearts, no gathering shadows of sorrow and 
bereavement. “And there shall be no more sea” — 
no restless tossing of the soul. “ And there shall be 
no more tears.” God Himself shall wipe them all 
from our eyes. 

O what a happy Place Heaven will be! Not half 
has yet been told. And all will be eternal. The 
glimpses of Divine glory will not be momentary, as 
upon the Mount of Transfiguration, but there we shall 
abide in the beatific vision. And hereafter, in the lurid 
morning that will break on that distant shore, we shall 
take our place in the beauty and might of a glorified 
manhood, gifted with infinite capacities, privileges, and 
opportunities, and we shall reign with Christ forever 
and ever. 

As Christian, in the Pilgrim’s Progress, drew near 


382 HEAVEN 

to the Heavenly City, he saw the gates opened to re- 
ceive others. “ I looked in after them,” he says, 
“and, behold, the City shone like the sun; the streets 
also were paved with gold, and in them walked many 
who had crowns on their heads and palms in their 
hands and golden harps to sing praises withal. There 
were also some that had wings, and they answered one 
another without intermission, saying, ‘ Holy, holy is 
the Lord’! And after that they shut up the gates; 
which when I had seen, I wished myself among them.” 
Do you, dear Reader, wish to mingle with that shining 
throng? Then take the hand of the Lord of Salva- 
tion, and let Him lead you on through the duties, and 
responsibilities, and cares of life, and you will find that 
your way will lead up the steeps and over the rough' 
places into the City of God. 

“ This land is Home; no stranger art thou here; 

Sweet and familiar words 

From voices silent long salute thine ear; 

And winds and songs of birds. 

And bees and blossoms and sweet perfumes are near. 

O happy soul, be thankful now and rest; 

Heaven is a goodly land; 

And God is love, and those He loves are blest ; — 
Now thou dost understand ; 

The least thou hast is better than the best. 

That thou didst hope for; now upon thine eyes 
The new life opens fair; 

Before thy feet the blessed journey lies 
Through homelands everywhere; 

And Heaven to thee is all a sweet surprise.” 


AS IT IS HEAVEN 

By One Of The Redeemed. 

AN ACCOUNT OF A SOUL’S ARRIVAL IN THE BETTER LANl? 
AND OF HER AWAKING 

“IN THE BEAUTIFUL MORNING” 

By the most enchanting music, first in distant soft sweet notes, then 
coming nearer and bursting forth in rapturous song; of her first view of 

THE HEAVENLY LANDSCAPE 

with its green sward, of the beauty of softest velvet, its flowing river, 
floating lilies, perfumed air, majestic trees with magnificient foliage, and 
beautiful birds of marvelous song and brilliant plumage; of meeting and 
recognizing her husband, who with face familiar on earth years before, 
but more radiantly beautiful, and lighted up with glory, and with an 
intelligence more than earth-born sparkling in his eyes, says, 

"Welcome Home, My Darling One, Good Morning!" 

Of flying through space, on spirit wings, with the swiftness of light, 
to view God’s great universe, and meeting convoys of angels, on errands 
of love; of angelic companionship and ministries; of the soul’s entry 
through pearly gates into the shining city, and arrival at 

Her Own Ma-nsion 

prepared with all the treasures of art, music and literature, and every 
grace and charm of beauty known, desired or imagined in an earthly 
home, a thousand-fold more beautiful; of meeting her sister Elsie, who 
appears as the little child known on earth, and suddenly changes to the 

tall and beautiful maiden she is after ten years of GROWTH and 

CULTURE in HEAVEN; of little children playing, and infant 

choirs singing; of angelic spirits leading redeemed souls 
Into The Presence Of Jesus, 
amid scenes of indescribable glory, where each, in an ecstacy of joy 
unspeakable, receives a word of glad welcome, and expression of love 
from heaven’s great King, and each soul feels at home with its redeemer; 
of delightful occupation without weariness; of the pursuit of knowledge, 
with quickened perception, the five senses ten-fold more accute and the 
number increased, mental powers enlarged, and memory faultless, and 
perfect power to convey thought and feeling to others; of, save meeting 
Jesus, the soul’s crowning ectacy of heaven 

The Coming of Edith 

her only child, the impression of father and mother that she is coming, 
an intimation from her ministering spirit that the time is near, hastening 
to the city and entering their mansion to see her standing white robed 
and garlanded amid flowers strewn by angels, and hear her cry “Father! 
Mother!” as she glides into their arras and they stand a reunited family. 


Many books, philosophical, fanciful, religious, scientific, have been 
written on this theme; but none that has the peculiar charm of this. It is 
largely a record of experience. Every incident recorded in it of the earth 
life is ABSOLUTELY TRUE. 

THE AUTHOR 

is the wife of a Christian minister, and the book was written after a most 
wonderful experience, when during a desperate illness the veil between 
earth and heaven was frayed thin, and for a limited time she looked into 
the hidden realms, and saw those things which John could find no 
language to describe. It is deeply religious, and though it contains ideas 
not mentioned in the Bible, it holds nothing contrary to its teaching. 

WHAT IT TELLS OF 

That heaven is a place, not merely a state of being. That it 
possesses mountains, lakes, verdure, flowers, and all things to delight tho 
senses. That these senses, instead of being five in number as on earth 
are many more; How one travels and learns; How the memory is 
perfected so that nothing once seen or heard is ever lost; How the 
scientist and artist continue their labor and researches there w'ith an 
infinitely wider opportunity; How Christ mingles with his people, and the 
wondrous scenes of the “Shining City” — these are some of the things 
told of in this volume. 


CHILDREN IN HEAVEN 

The vast majority of the human race die in infancy. It follows that 
the far greater number of the inhabitants of heaven enter there as little 
children. “As it is in heaven” tells of them, how they play as they 
played on earth, and grow up to maturity, yet can still appear to the 
parent’ s eyes the children they were when they were called across the 
dark river. 

Contains over 400 pages, printed from new type, on good paper with 
beautiful half-tone engravings. Handsomely bound. 

In Fine Book Cloth, with artistic design on cover . . . , . $1.00 

In Extra Silk Cloth, gilt top (For presents) $ 1 . 2 ^ 

In Half Morocco, marbled edges iSi.50 

Supplied by agents or mailed, post paid, on receipt of price. 


R W. ZIEGLER CO. 


215 LOCUST STREET. PHILADELPHIA. PA. 






7 6 9 



■ CJ , 




\ 




% 




< 1 ^ 


i.^- ii- fe- ' v‘ 





V , 


i^\ w 


) 


> 





<' 0 


^1 , ^ jr '^>o^ 0 o » ry^ k^ '■'Z^t^ y r\ 



^O ^ h ^ o ^ ^ » 1 A * J 

,^^/u/onO 0^ -> S^ 

'" r <3 -i' * - a"^ ' '' 


'M\ "% ^ 




^ : '^O 0 

: A ^ 

•' 



^ v' » '" ‘ 



“ <<. 

^ V^ -» 

^ r /tQ 


o ^ 

> \V ct- 



.0 

' N. 


^ il ^ ^ 0 ^^81 

\ % ^ / 
,j:e>’ " %/ 



8 1' 

'• aV' ' 

;Y= %/ " 

.V \7Mm - A ^ ^ ,,. „ ^ 

' V\'':^CV” ’ ' 


<* ‘^ 



0 « I 




ft fcS » ^ oV "* ■'’ ■> 

0 * «;0 ^ * ft s ^ ^ 

' v^ ; 

>.o°- ”. 

Q^ '^y 


® o'; 'n^ " •>: ^ 

^ rf- ‘T^jpjr c 



* ' '"* 0^" "' ••> N 

a"^ " a.'’ 


0 

^\^'^\%. .V 

'^. ^ 0 ft V '** ■ i s ■’ \ ’ — 

.0*^ .c ^ ^ c^‘ 

V 'K^^\ 

■ #. aO C‘ 




ij^ 

,A>' ^ O " c.*’ ^ 

.--o'..'N ... 

T 






-<3 




« « 


' ^ ' f;P ^ ‘^53 £> A ^\' - <» 

” ’ ' V'^'’ c » -■ ; V' * * ' 







^ ': : 

K" 1^'* 

\ rJ^ ^ ^ ft o ? 

>1^ '^, '^ >) M 0 ^ * □ ^ » ' \'^' 

■ ’ ^ ^ -^ * ' ' o'^ s ^ 






0 ft H 


, -^b, ” ' ' ..o"^’ c » ~ * 

"i O ^ _ rvis^ /** 

^ o'^ ® 

^ O A - 




'■^■K ® 'if'/ >'» 

',^^4 

' 0 ft k 


^ ' ■'o o' 

ft" 

S'’ = .'k^ -^K 

" '^2 


<- 



^ ^ ^ ft 

-;% ' ° “ ' '/ s « '1* * , '% ' ■ " ,o'^’ c » * ■-'^^ 

ft ^ V ft ® 

^ ^g s-lfc--^^ I **,OvX fl* 

; 

^ ^ '' X^ rf- "-t^/i 

A.^ O O > ''K>3^ « O r* rU I 

C^ s'” r°'‘c- ’ ■’ ~ ° \ \^ . V • 0 - * • ' ' ■ s . . 

t*' -t, 

' %. /■ 



'' r '^5. .>1 ^ 







0 

t 


0 

0 



z 

0 


LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



